You’ve Evolved To: Britachu!

Becoming a member of society is a weird thing. One day your slugging jungle juice out of an old water bottle you pulled from the recycling bin, and the next your putting your “disposable” income into a low-risk ETF (both unfortunate realities of my life.)

I’ve been what people refer to as “adult” for 81 days now, and I’m deep in denial about letting my glorious college days go. It seems like it was just yesterday I was throwing up Mai Tais out of a slow moving Uber, feeling invincible and full of life. Now I look forward to getting home to watch my fish swim around her bowl and be in bed at a reasonable hour. I even complain about my noisy neighbors.

81 days doesn’t seem like that long in the big scheme of things. But it’s more than enough time to see yourself change into something new. Harvey Dent once spit out this hot bit of fire:


Anyways, I’ve been thinking about this quote a lot lately. And at least as it applies to my life, I think it’s wrong. I feel like I used to be the villain in my own story: close-minded, quick to judge and to anger, easily rattled and prone to violent takeovers of major U.S. cities using an army of misfits to do my bidding. Okay, maybe not that last one, but I was always really hard on myself and others to the point of self-sabotage.

Having become aware of this, I realized it’s about time I turn into the hero of my story. Don’t get me wrong, I still gawk at the wackos on the train, but now it’s more of a way to pass the time than to pass judgment. And I am still really hard on myself; I swear sometimes I pass a mirror and hear a voice telling me how gross I am, you know, Green Goblin style:


Poor Willem Dafoe. Never saw that giant green hoverboard coming.

But I’ve started to learn that heroes don’t have to be perfect, they just need the deep desire to do good. And I want to do good for myself, because unless Batman comes to my rescue (which I’m totally okay with Christian Bale), I’m all I’ve got. So I’ve stopped letting my moods keep me from leaving bed. I’ve stopped letting the voices telling me I’m fat be fact rather than opinion. I’ve stopped letting the little shit things that happen in my day set me on a tailspin.

I’ve learned to laugh at the people on the train sighing heavily as we’re stopped for more police activity on the Red line instead of sighing along with them. I’ve found pure joy in the little things like seeing a bunny on my walk to the train or hearing a co-worker laugh at a joke I made.

And that’s not to say the old villainous me won’t come back with an army of new crazies holding baseball bats with nails sticking out of them to try to take down my morale. She’ll be back, probably sooner than I’m ready for. But I’ll be ready. Equipped with stuff like the ability to laugh off the stupid shit and a strong desire to be my own personal hero.

So I’ve changed, but I’m still me…I’ve evolved. From a wild Brittany with a meager CP of only 130 to a majestic Britachu with a fucking killer 893 CP (thanks Laurel for the cool new Pokemon name).

I will always be a sarcastic little shit. I will always find strength in cheese fries. And I will always fight an unseen battle between the person I am and the person depression and anxiety want me to be. But I now will be my own advocate and my own personal hero. And that, is a fucking dope benefit of evolution.



Raise Two F-U Fingers High for The MBTA

Okay. So I’m a bus person. And a daily rider of Boston’s lovely fucking Orange and Red lines. For those of you who experience the MBTA on a daily basis, I thank you for your sympathy and return it to you ten fold. For those blessed enough to have avoided this fate, you are some lucky shits.

In my few short months as a MBTA commuter, I’ve experienced some shit. I’ve seen people making out and people pass out from the heat. I’ve enjoyed the peaceful sounds of wailing children at 8AM. I’ve been sandwiched between two of the largest people I’ve ever seen, and I’ve had someone’s ass in my face while their backpack literally rested on my damn shoulder.


Quick heads up for you monsters who bring backpacks on the subway: Take them off and put them in between your legs. It takes the pressure off your back, leaves room for more of us in MBTA Hell to squeeze in and it prevents you from being a huge douche.

I’ve also seen shirtless women and a man rocking these bad boys.


I’ve been semi-stalked and fully harassed. But nothing compares to what happened yesterday.

I was sitting on the Orange line on my way home, something I was thrilled about because I almost never get to sit on this particularly heinous leg of my journey. I was listening to Guster and reading Christopher Moore’s Fluke, when a group of rowdy little shits boarded.

They were yelling and pushing into people and being overall fucking obnoxious. I was doing fine until one of them started yelling about some stupid shit. At first I thought it was a joke, until they began pushing one another. Eventually one them took things a step further and pulled a knife. A fucking knife.

As I freaked the hell out internally, I continued to keep my eyes on my book and my finger on the trigger of my pepper spray.

As soon as the train stopped I got myself onto a new cart, sat down and felt the impact of what I had just witnessed wash over me. My legs began to shake, my fingers trembled and tears welled up just under my sunglasses.

I managed to get myself off the train reasonably well and walked until I saw Dan’s car where I proceeded to have a full blown anxiety attack. What fun. Especially for Dan. He’s there smiling waiting to take me home to our little fish, Luna, and I’m standing there bawling and yelling, “Can we just go home!” Not the ideal greeting to say the least.

Well he managed to calm down, wipe the snot from my face and stop my legs from incessantly shaking. We got crab rangoon and watched old episodes of Psych.  He even managed to make me laugh. He’s fucking brilliant like that.

There are lunatics everywhere. Every fucking where. Especially on the train. Especially in Boston. But I still love it. Even though it drives me nuts, occasionally leaves me exposed to the occasional knife fight and gives me stress and anxiety I sometimes can’t bear. There are still adorable old married couples and even the rare well-behaved cute child. This is the crazy but beautiful life I signed up for. Besides, there are too fucking many interesting people that need watching, so I can’t give up now.

And when things get really bad, there’s always Dan, Chinese food and perfect TV shows that got cancelled way before their prime had passed.

R.I.P Psych

Failure to Launch

I feel like Matthew McConaughey. Except less attractive, charismatic and wealthy. Also I’m a woman.


Alright, alright, alright. The Me of Matthews.

But yesterday I released my precious little newborn blog into the world. It was frail and unstable and needed all the care of a baby bird. So I unveiled it to the cold harsh Internet at the prime time of, you guessed it, 2:23 pm. To the normal person, not a big deal. But to me, a nightmare.

As someone who deals with extreme bouts of anxiety and struggles with OCD, 2:23 pm is just an awful time. Statistically, it’s one of the worst times to post anything to the World Wide Webs since normal people are working or napping or getting high or eating second lunch (that’s a thing, trust me). They are not reading the blog of a twenty-something talking about John Goodman in an ugly dog suit.

I tried to schedule my post for a nice even time, 6:30pm. People are getting home from work, getting ready for dinner and excited to judge me on my inner workings. Instead I published prematurely, exposing the world (or rather the 5 people who probably saw it) to a typo and a poorly timed post.

And as someone who over-analyzes every fucking thing that happens in my life and proceeds to get mind-numbingly stressed over it, things like this matter to me. Deciding to open up about my mental health is stressful enough as it is without worrying about self-sabotage.

But I guess that’s the lesson in all of this. Don’t straighten your hair and expect it to be perfect the second you leave the house and choke on that 90% humidity. Don’t trust that your GPS will get you there right at 5:00pm like that stupid bitch insists she can do. And don’t expect your blog post to enter the world polished and perfect. It won’t be. It can’t be. Because you are a person with flaws and oddities. And if your blog didn’t have a few hiccups along the way, then it wasn’t really coming from you.

But you best believe I will never trust the fucking post scheduler again.


Hello, It’s Me

So I started a Tumblr blog what feels like way too long ago when I went abroad and did some semi-cool shit. I haven’t posted since because let’s face it, no one wants to look at pictures of non-exotic lands.

Since then I have done some grown up things and such. I passed some classes, drank a lot, graduated college, landed my dream job and continuously miss my friends that I no longer live 10 feet away from. I also fell in love, moved in with that fella to lock that shit down and became the parent to a wonderful little fish named Luna.

But not everything has been all adulting and fish care. Over the past year I have grown more acutely aware of my stupid mood swings, shitty attitudes and occasional inability to get out of bed and be social. I thought I was just becoming a crotchety (hehe, crotchety) old lady, but I’m only fucking 22. So I eventually accepted that I got something else is going on.

Anxiety, depression, OCD, mood swings and thankfully only rare bouts of depersonalization have weaseled their way into my cheery little life. These things have always been a factor in my life, but I think this is the first time I’m really coming to terms that I, like 1 in 5 people, have poor mental health. And I’m not going to let it beat the shit out of me anymore.

I read an incredibly powerful book recently, Jenny Lawson’s Furiously Happy. I have to admit I picked it up because of the fucking perfection of the cover (judge books by their covers, I’m convinced only good authors appreciate the importance of having fun with that precious real estate).


Look at that shit. Look at it!

I wandered through the pages fully unaware of what it was about, and then it hit me like a load of bricks. I felt like fate had led me to this little raccoon just itching to tell me that my situation is not unfelt by others. I was laughing on the beach surrounded by my family who probably accurately, thought I looked insane. This book made me laugh, it seriously made me cry and it made me realize that I have been denying myself to the truth of my mental state for far too long. Even if you’re pretty normal, read this book, because I guarantee you someone in your life sympathizes far too well with Lawson’s story.

So like Lawson, I’m going to write. I’m going to write because sometimes it’s too hard to speak. I’m going to write because I’m not ready to submit to drugs or hardcore therapy. I’m going to write to raise awareness surrounding mental health, something that 100% of people have whether good or bad. I’m going to write because my wonderful partner, Dan, doesn’t deserve to take this all on single-handedly even though he assures me he’s more than willing…does that make him more crazy than me?

Most importantly, I’m going to write for my life, a life I don’t want to lose to the darkness. Because letting that beast fester in the shadows gives it way more power than flashing the lights in its eyes. It’s like how Sulley in Monsters Inc. is scary until you realize he’s just John Goodman in an ugly dog suit.

I’m terrified to let this post out into the world and be judged by all the people whose opinions I tell myself I don’t care about but do. But I need to do this for myself. Mental health has been hidden due to fear and shame for far too long. There are people in my life who will read this and care less or judge more. Some will never read this. But some will. And some will appreciate it, and maybe some will understand. And maybe I can help myself and help a few others to see that this beast that’s growing inside just needs to be shown that laughter is far more powerful than fear….I mean, that shit powered all of Monstropolis, right?

So join me, or don’t join me, I won’t be taking attendance. Except for you, yes you in the back, stop chewing that gum and pay attention for fuck’s sake. I think it’s about time we stop living our perfect lives on social media and stop hiding away from what’s really going on. Let’s start to shed some light and find out what that beast really is…personally, I hope its a pile of puppies wearing top hats.