So here’s what’s up with me…

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I’m not great with decision making of any kind. I pretty much shut down and then wait in the corner, crying like a baby and hoping someone will handle everything for me. (Seriously. Watching me order dinner is basically like watching Sophie’s Choice, because what if I don’t like the chicken? OH MY GODDDD WHAT IF I HATE THE CHIIIIIIIICKEN!?!)

Unfortunately, the strategy of tricking someone else into deciding things for me stopped working around the second grade. So since then, I’ve been really into looking for a sign? And here’s how that plays out…

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And then I throw things, and I’m pretty sure that’s where the expression “Don’t cry over spilled milk comes from.” It also may be where the expression “You’ve broken your last carton of milk, ma’am. You’re not welcome here anymore” comes from.

Hey, by the way, I made some big life decisions this month, and I’m moving again.

So. You know. This.

The following tale is based on actually events.

It’s been a rough few days, guys.