Abigail M. Schilling

I don't know what recovery feels like, even though I use the term often. I never leave a buffer time between my trips and my life because I'd rather be living or experiencing or moving or some other cliche. When I crash into my bed after little sleep, planes, trains, and automobiles, I refuse to unpack my suitcase. This return I refuse to even bring it into my bedroom, so daunting are its burgeoning contents.

I was worried it wouldn't make it through bag drop, that it would weigh too much and I'd be there, huddled next to a station rapidly shoving dirty clothes into a canvas bag for my second carry-on. As embarrassing as that would be, I was really just anti-carrying another thing through the airport. It was under the weight restriction though, with 2.5 lbs to spare.

Even more riveting than the weight of my suitcase, is the minor fact that I have stopped biting my nails (again) (mostly). I need to go get a manicure this week before I bite them all of again. Or worse, just be all weird and orally-fixated and fake bite them until they break on their own. I'm so gross.

I have a lot of wonderful things to say about BlogHer, me and everyone else, and I want to, I do, I just find myself at a typing loss today. I'm deleting a game from my iPod post-haste that may be a contributing factor in this crippling inability to complete sentences and/or thoughts.

No, I'm not deleting it.

I tried, but then it told me I would lose all my high scores too and I didn't throw my life away for nothing! I need that proof! Proof that I need professional help.

At The Collective this week we're holding a caption contest. Readers get to cap photos from when we were wee. Or you can just laugh at us. There aren't any prizes for that, but it's still kind of fun. Kind of? No, laughing at other people is really fun. Especially when they're sporting a denim jacket with purple accents.