Chronically Irritated

Shopping is Shopping   Let’s get one thing straight: expensive doesn’t mean better. I’m so tired of people acting like the only things worth having come with a price tag large enough to make your bank account weep. The obsession with high-end everything has become some weird social disease. Why drop $100 on jeans when you can thrift name-brand ones for under $10? Because it’s “cool”? Because it’s “popular”? Sit down. Seriously. If that $120 candle doesn’t come with a mortgage payment or emotional support, I don’t want it. $1 candles smell just fine and still set the mood—whether that mood is relaxation or rage cleaning is up to me. And yes, I’m loud about it. If someone asks where I got my jeans, I’ll say the thrift store without blinking. The people who scoff usually do so right after asking where I got them. Like, didn’t you just want to know? Now you got answers and attitude? Pick one. Let’s talk treasure: I once scored a fully functional La-Z-Boy microfiber couch for $25. No st...

  Ever notice how men treat each other like walking success stories, and women treat each other like threats to national security? One guy lands a promotion, and suddenly he’s got a hype squad shouting, “Bro, you’re living the dream!” Another gets new tires and it’s wings, beer, and a celebration like someone had a baby. Meanwhile, over in the world of women, a girl posts a vacation photo, and the claws come out: “Ugh, I would never wear that.” Cool. Good thing you’re not her. This isn’t some ancient truth passed down from the gossip gods—this is real life, still happening today. And while not every woman falls into the drama-trap, we can’t ignore the cultural divide between how men and women treat each other’s wins. Let’s be honest: men just don’t care the same way. They’re content watching someone else shine, especially if it means they get to show up for the celebration without having to iron a shirt. Women, on the other hand, are wired to fix things. We’re perfectionists, taugh...

 Hey, hi, hello—I’m still here. And so is my anxiety. Anxiety Illustrated: The Mental Group Chat You Can’t Mute It’s not just with me. No, no. It’s behind my eyes, under my skin, in my chest, and (surprise!) hosting a group chat I’m not even in. Which is rude, considering it's my life they’re constantly live-texting about. Let me introduce you to the members of the group: First, there’s The Questioner . She’s always poking around with a flashlight, whispering, “But what if?” in the back of my mind like she’s the narrator of a true crime podcast. Then we have The Dissatisfied One, who thinks no matter what I do, it could’ve been better—and louder—and cleaner. Speaking of cleaner, meet The Cleaning Lady . She’s got main character syndrome and zero chill. She shows up uninvited, scrubbing my mental baseboards when nobody asked her anything. She’s the reason I can’t sit still when there’s a crumb on the counter or a shoe out of place. But wait— Bossman is here too. He’s corporate. He’...

 Let’s just say it—Kim Kardashian for president doesn't sound as wild as it used to. If you’re already rolling your eyes, buckle up, because we’re diving deeper than a contour line into the real reason Kim K might just be exactly what America needs in 2025. First, let’s talk policy. You know what Kim would do on Day One? Abolish the death penalty with the kind of efficiency only a mom of four and lawyer could deliver. While others are arguing over who's “too political,” Kim’s already changing laws, freeing the wrongly convicted, and shaking up the justice system—without even holding office. And can we kill the narrative that she’s “famous for being famous”? She’s famous for working her surgically-enhanced ass off. Seriously. She juggles more roles than a Shakespeare play: entrepreneur, law student, prison reform advocate, mom, reality TV icon, and billion-dollar brand builder. Some of y’all couldn’t even manage a group chat, let alone an empire. Also, can we not pretend that be...

  Little Bootleg McDonald’s Knockoffs! Let’s talk about trauma. Not the kind you get from relationships or taxes—but the kind you get from Burger King removing the one thing that brought you joy: Crown and Lightning Nuggets. If you just felt a wave of nostalgia mixed with blind rage, you’re my people. These weren’t just chicken nuggets. They were royalty. They were lightning in nugget form—literally. Perfectly crispy, seasoned with whatever flavor magic Burger King had no right keeping to themselves, and shaped like tiny emblems of happiness. I could inhale two or three orders without blinking. Don’t judge me—you would’ve too if you had taste buds and a soul. One day, I pulled up like always, prepared to place my usual order and cruise off into fast food bliss. But instead of my nuggets, I got heartbreak. The cashier hit me with the news like it was no big deal: “We don’t have those anymore.” Excuse me, what? Did they think I wouldn’t notice? Like I wouldn’t grieve? Like I wouldn’t...

  There are certain things in life that we all keep doing just because someone somewhere said we should. Like it’s tradition. Like there’s some rulebook passed down through generations that says, “You must suffer through this pointless task, or you’re not an adult.” Well… I’ve decided I’m not doing any of it. So let’s talk about the everyday nonsense we’ve all agreed to suffer through—for no actual reason. 1. Top Sheets Who still uses these? Why are you using them? Are they not just unsolicited fabric swaddles that come alive in the night? And how are you keeping them still?? Every time I try, I wake up in a fabric straightjacket having night-fought a ghost. No thanks. Duvet or nothing. The end. 2. Ironing Clothes I don’t even separate my lights and darks—how do people live in a world where ironing is a scheduled activity? Is it a hobby? Does it calm you? Because for me, it’s a hard no. If it came out of the dryer and doesn’t resemble a crumpled paper receipt, I’m wearing it. Textu...

 Let me just say this: raising daughters is like living with tiny besties who might shank you for looking at them the wrong way during a hormonal thunderstorm. I’ve got two—ages 10 and 13—and while I love them with my whole heart, sometimes I swear I’m just a glorified chauffeur, therapist, and shampoo supplier. You are my wildest hope, my fiercest pride, and the reason I believe in magic. The Best Part? Built-in Girl Gang. Honestly, having daughters means I always have a partner-in-crime for last minute Walmart runs, lunch dates, and spontaneous “let’s get our nails done because we survived another Monday” therapy sessions. They’re mini versions of emotional support humans—until they’re not. Sisters or Frenemies? Yes. They don’t argue with each other much—probably because they’re too busy tag-teaming arguments with their brother . Sometimes they’re BFFs, planning adventures and giggling over secret jokes. Other times, my oldest slips into full “mom mode” and starts scolding her yo...