365 Days: October 2017

I have decided that for the next year, I’m going to tentatively try writing a little bit each day, or at least every other day. I don’t know if I’ll stick to it, but I’m going to try. I don’t want this to become like a diary, so I’ll refrain from talking about people by name. I’m going to create a page month by month, and update it with entries. And I have a LOT of feelings on a lot of things, so be prepared. It’s entirely possible I’ll just decide this is stupid and time-consuming, so be prepared.


I promise I won’t make most of my entries this personal, but I don’t really have anyone else to confide in. “Shoot your shot,” as the kids say. This is about to be a Basic Girl Whining About Her Love Life™ post, you’ve been warned.

Last weekend was the very definition of “not with a fizzle, but with a bang.” Long story short, I went back to a boy I swore off of and it (predictably) ended in a disaster straight out of a teen drama. Tears on both sides, him repeating “I don’t know, Quinnie, I just don’t know” and me throwing my hands up in exasperation and proclaiming that if that was the way it was, then I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing here before getting in my car and speeding away, sobbing. Awkwardly, he’ll probably read this, so there’s that.

I really, truly don’t understand relationships. Maybe it’s because forming closeness with another person is so difficult for me that on the rare occasion it does occur, it’s for a significant reason. Although as far as I can tell, all it leads to is hiding under the covers, stuffing my face with cookies, and listening to Kesha’s “Praying” on repeat. Which I, um, may or may not be doing right now. See the link below for my tried-and-true heartbreak playlist on Spotify.


Sticky maple leaf cookies from Trader Joe’s. A chair on the street that looks like a sad clown. Vegan Elote pizza at Mohawk Bend. These are the images that flickered through my day.


“Can you believe Halloween is next week?”

Hearing a co-worker launch into her Halloweekend plans, I am quietly struck with a somber realization. It’s like getting to a party and realizing you have the wrong address, or arriving at the gym and realizing you’re wearing jeans. I have approximately zero plans for Halloween and it’s highly doubtful any will materialize, unless one of my roommates pity-invites me to whatever they’re doing (which I don’t expect and which they are under no obligation to do).

Now, I’m a little embarrassed I even ordered those deer antlers. Oh well.


It’s strange how much I can look back at the past year of my life and just cringe. I cringe at the happy moments as much as the bad ones, because of how felt to lose that source of happiness. The memories of every moment since I came to LA are tinted morose shades of gray and dark blue.


For most of my youth, I have lived and died by an intricate framework of little superstitions. If I wore my pink bra on a given day, I’d talk to my crush. If I arranged all my binders in my backpack so that they were facing outwards, my math teacher wouldn’t check the homework. I would look back through the doodles I made in the margins of my planner and determine if it had been a Good Day or a Bad Day, scoping out any kind of a pattern. I had doodled swirls using a green pen two days ago and class had been cancelled; therefore, green swirls in the margins of my history notebook meant a Good Day.

I carried these rules well into college: if I wore my blue leggings on Wednesday, that one guy would text me this weekend, but ONLY if I also went to Starbucks on Thursday and ordered a green tea and blueberry scone.

I’ve recently outgrown this, but it wasn’t until today that I ever admitted it to anyone else.


Possible friend. Drinks that taste like college. Possibility hangs in the air.


Cliched as it is, silence really can speak volumes more than words. Perhaps a hundred decibels louder as well. It’s white noise static on full blast. I hear everything in the nothing.


Sitting on the couch, next to my new roommates, watching Stranger Things season 2.  A window is open and in spills the golden day into the cracks of hope in my heart. Contentedness washes over me like a warm bath.



When I was in high school, I participated in a friend’s art project that involved choosing one word to describe your greatest internal struggle, and “fragile” was mine. Flash forward a few years, it’s still accurate.

I don’t give out affection or let people get close to me often because of how easy it is to completely destroy my mental equilibrium. My walls are high because my emotional state is made of spun glass and the slightest provocation can shatter it. The mere memory of something sad can smash me to pieces. It’s my absolute least favorite thing about myself.


A mood: driving through unusually dark gray LA fog listening to a true crime podcast the day before Halloween.


Sometimes I feel ashamed I couldn’t produce the “evidence” you needed that I had “fixed” myself. Other times I think, who the actual hell did you think you were? How dare you criticize my mental health so I can be worthy of your precious time when I never said a single word about yours, even when you cried on my shoulder about another woman, and I’m utterly humiliated that I let a man talk to me that way.

I am not the girl with inky tears leaking down porcelain skin.

I am acid and vinegar and words that hurt.

I am a quick tongue and a quicker temper.

Alternatively, I am shitty metaphors and sloppy prose.


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Twitter: @qhopp | Instagram: @quinnhoppquinnhopp.com


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