Dear Digital Diary

thoughts and thinkings of a woman navigating her twenties

occasional diary entries. sometimes in the form of handwritten notes. some extra words posted in between.

recent posts

the author

  • The Misters You Might Meet

    Dear Digital Diary,

    if sexuality was really a choice, I wouldn’t keep choosing men after the guys I’ve dated.

    It was a rule in my childhood home that I could start dating once I turned sixteen. While I didn’t go on real “dates” until college (thank you, COVID lockdown), I had my fair share of situationships as well as the supply of horror stories from my friends to tide me over before I dated men I actually liked.

    And while I’m now dating a stellar specimen of this particular genre, the ones I dated before were rather…well, I’ll let you decide. I’ve pulled together a comprehensive guide of the types of men you might come across while trying to find your person. 

    1. Mister Boy-Man

    To preface, if you’re over 18, hopefully you’re not dating a boy under 18. 

    Anyway, Mr. Boy-Man is the guy you liked when you were younger. You thought you loved him. You’d sneak glances in the hallway, and he’d add you on Snapchat, and when he saved your snap in the chat, you believed that was basically a proposal. 

    Eventually, he’d do something stupid, or you’d get jealous, and your heart would be broken. The first love, and the first death of love. You’d listen to Halsey like the bad b***h you were, but your eyes would still wander to search for him. It’s all very juvenile in hindsight, but you were young. And he was young, too. 

    Mr. Boy-Man never knows what’s going on, and he’s grappling with raging hormones that, unfortunately, rule over his critical thinking skills until around 23. 

    2. Mister Long-Lost Lover

    Mr. Long-Lost Lover is the guy that you periodically have a crush on. 

    Maybe you knew him when you were young, and he shows up out of nowhere, periodically, as if reminding you he exists. He’s simply a comfortable idea, but an idea that you think about often. He’s a fantasy, no more real than a fictional character in a book you reread. 

    It’ll never be anything, but you often think about what could’ve been. Especially when it’s midnight and he appears on Tinder after you haven’t seen him in years. Suddenly, he’s a man now. 

    And as quickly as he reappears, he’s gone again, fading into the background of your life and into the foreground of his own. 

    3. Mister Bad Idea

    Mr. Bad Idea is the guy you told your friends you wouldn’t see again…except you totally did. 

    Second chances, right? Except it’s more like the fourth or fifth chance with the same exact outcome. He’s low commitment, usually a guy who’s like working on himself, or isn’t into labels. This is the guy who’s wasting your time, but you hold onto hope that maybe if you give him one more chance, he’ll call you his girlfriend. 

    If your friends groan and shake your shoulders every time you mention him, take it as a sign that he may fall into the category of Mr. Bad Idea.

    4. Mister In Your Face

    Mr. In Your Face is the love bomber. He’s the guy who’s obsessive right off the bat and will do anything to please you. And it’s nice, at first. 

    He takes you out to dinner on your one-month anniversary. He buys you jewelry. He writes you long love notes. He starts talking about marriage at month three. He has you meet his family at month four. And like, it’s great. 

    Except the guy is like gum on a shoe. Annoying, inconvenient, and lowkey stresses you out because it’s a fat wad of bubblegum rubber stuck to the sole of a red bottom heel. 

    It’s almost like he switched up overnight. He starts saying things like I’ll die without you or you’re the reason I wake up. You don’t know if he’s doing this because he wants to sleep with you or because he’s genuinely lacking brain cells, but it’s pissing you off. Personal space? Never heard of her. 

    As it turns out, if his existence irritates you, you’re probably not dating the right guy. And if it’s a Mr. In Your Face, you’ll look back and realize that you only dated for a short while, but he made it seem like you’d dated for years.

    5. Mister Mirror

    Mr. Mirror is you. But it’s not you. He’s you if you were looking in a mirror, but he looked totally different. But when you’re playing two truths and a lie, they kind of match up. 

    See, this guy is the one who makes you wonder if you’re secretly related. The trauma is the same, you think the same, and you share traits like stubbornness, fitness, or the favoring of cats. He’s your twin flame. 

    But twin flames create huge a** fires. You and Mr. Mirror are too similar, and you start to butt heads. Eventually, you burned out, and it was chaos. 

    6. Mister Lore

    Mr. Lore is someone who looks normal, is average height, studies law, has a cat, takes the train to work, and loves Marvel films. But he was also a drug addict. Fentanyl. For like, years.

    And he brought it up randomly in conversation like he simply asked you to pass a napkin. Your mouth is gaping open, and he’s chewing on a bite of burrito while his head is tilted like he’s wondering why you’re looking at him like that. 

    But as it turns out, that’s the most interesting thing about him. His lore drop becomes his personality, and it was the only thing that made the date somewhat worth it. You bought a nice outfit, arrived early, and all you got was an awkward side hug and a cool story for later. 

    7. Mister After Ten

    Mr. After Ten is just as he sounds. He only exists in the time frame between when you’re going to bed and when you’re asleep. When the sun comes up, he’s gone.

    This guy is the rando you added on Snapchat from a dating app. There was nothing promising about him besides the factthat he’s hot and sends mirror pics. His resume wasn’t even super impressive — he’s limited to phrases such as u up? and your so hot (specifically without the correct spelling of you’re). He likes to talk about dates but never makes real plans, and he has no real interest in you besides where you live (if it’s within driving distance for a quickie) and what you do for a living (he actually doesn’t care, but he already asked if u up). 

    His hours are 10 pm-2 am, and he clocks in every night, right on time. Hey, at least he’s consistent. 

    8. Mister America

    Mr. America is that guy you met on Tinder who happened to be on a military base in your area. 

    He also probably voted red.

    He’s actually the guy whom you decided was the chosen one to talk to when bored, but you decided very early on that you’d never date him. Or he’s just the one you sleep with. Or he’s the one you sleep with, then decide to date, and then marry, because for some reason the military and marriage coexist like peanut butter and jelly. 

    But for most, Mr. America is not the type that you’d seriously date. He was just fun to argue with when you felt like arguing about politics, basic empathy, and morals. And sometimes the news comes on and the stock market is plummeting and groceries are expensive as f**k and you think about him and mentally flip him off.

    9. Mister Buddy Ol’ Pal

    Mr. Buddy Ol’ Pal is a BookTok trope. He’s your “guy friend” that you have “absolutely no feelings for” until it’s late at night in autumn and you feel like you need to talk to him about something. 

    Since you’re friends, it’s convenient. He’s seen your worst and your best and remains your friend. You’ve already got the inside jokes and hangouts and trauma bonding that only develop through years of dating. So one day you smell his cologne and your body sort of convulses and your heart rate starts racing and you think you’re dying. But it’s not death. It’s a crush.

    But there’s a 50/50 chance it will be the death of the friendship. Because either you date and you get married, or you date and break up. If it’s the latter, you’ve ensured that there will always be that moment in time where you held hands and woke up next to him in his boy bedroom under his boy sheets. And sometimes you look at him and remember that and laugh about the fact that you know how your friend’s lips taste.

    Or you break up and you never speak to him again and lose a lover and a friend. 

    Risky as hell.

    10. Mister Right

    And then there’s Mr. Right.

    He appears like a fairy godmother ready to bippity boppity boo your life. He’s a shooting star in a night sky when you were only staring at the stars to search for constellations. He’s a penny on the street in March when the ground is coated in slush. 

    You didn’t expect him to be Mr. Right because you’d been so focused on all the Mr. Wrongs that you started to give up on love. And once you gave it up cold-turkey and your body adjusted, it didn’t bother you so much anymore. You didn’t have that itch, that craving, to star in your own version of a Hallmark Christmas movie. You were just fine doing your thing and doing it solo with a little fun here and there. But mostly, it was all about you.

    But then you and Mr. Right met. And you talked for hours about nothing and everything. Your breathing slowed, and you followed him into the darkness of a forest, trusting him to be your guide. He is comfortable. He isn’t wild. Mr. Right isn’t about wild passion. Mr. Right is just…right. Not too hot, not too cold. Just right.

    And it might take a few tries (or more than a few) to find him. But Mr. Right is out there. 

    That is, of course, if you’re looking for a Mr. Right. Maybe you aren’t, and that’s fine. While this post is about men, it doesn’t mean that you need one. It doesn’t have to be that serious. 

    This is your life, after all. And everything you do is for the plot of your story. Don’t feel bad about writing a fun or dramatic episode. Just try to make sure that the episode’s love interest won’t murder you on a first date.

    – Mia

  • AI Who?

    Dear Digital Diary,

    I think there’s still hope for the future of storytelling because the modern era has produced these brilliant artists who would KO AI in a second flat.

    Art will never die. It’s threatened, sure, but as long as there are a few people who can understand the human world in a way AI can’t, I expect we’ll be alright.

    – Mia

  • The Job Market Sucks…But You Don’t

    Dear Digital Diary,

    I really thought I’d have my career set up by now.

    Career is a big word. An all-encompassing word that’s technically supposed to include a lengthy amount of time in which someone spent in a singular field (and received a salary, not hourly). So really, it’s not a bad thing that I’m 22 years old and don’t have my career set up. At least that’s what I tell myself, or else I will spiral.

    Primarily, I believed that I had done everything I was supposed to in order to secure a career immediately after graduation. I went to college. I wrote so many words and developed migraines from staring at my computer for so long. I volunteered as a writing mentor. I graduated with a BFA in writing from a well-known and highly acclaimed art school. And, of course, I had a few odd side quests here and there where I painted sails or published poetry for digital magazines. 

    Except I keep getting rejected from publishing houses. I don’t get emails back from online magazines. I can’t even get internships because they’re exclusively tailored for college students and college credit.

    I can’t help thinking about what I did wrong. Or it wasn’t even what I did wrong, it’s what I didn’t do enough of.

    Like maybe I should’ve done two other internships during my junior and senior years. But then I would’ve been juggling portfolio class with an internship, or personal life things that exploded during my junior year. Or maybe I should’ve stared a little longer at my laptop and pretended I loved grant writing instead of enjoying my college time with friends (or taken that extra nap). Because whatever I had done, there was always room for more. 

    But it sucks when I was promised a career. It was a loose promise, like how you’re promised that you’re going to figure it all out. At the time, though, I believed it was pretty set in stone. So did all my friends. And now, here we are. Most of us are jobless.

    But it’s not our fault. 

    To be honest, the job market is about as unstable as I was at sixteen. An entry-level job in NYC doesn’t pay enough to afford to live there — not that it matters anyway because, even though it’s entry-level, you’d need 3+ years of experience and also a master’s degree and also maybe experience in social media.

    It’s just all so bizarre. Because if I had a master’s degree and that much experience, I’m not going to apply for an entry-level position. Sort of like how I’m not applying to unpaid internships because I have a four-year bachelor’s degree. And although I could’ve focused all of my time and energy on my career during the process of obtaining my degree, I might have still ended up in the same spot I am in now. At the end of the day, it’s the luck of the draw. It’s internal hiring. It’s hiring as little people as possible to make the biggest profit.  

    What I’m trying to say here is that we’ve been set up to fail.

    So if you feel like you’re failing at the moment, same. But you know what? If you got up today, if you cooked a meal, if you made someone smile, if you texted a friend, if you did something nice for yourself — that’s all succeeding in and of itself. 

    Your career isn’t the only thing that makes you successful or impressive. But if it’s something to chase, you’ll get there eventually no matter your pace. Like I said before, we’ll figure it out. 

    As most things, success is a construct. And I have a feeling that I — and you — are exactly in the place we’re supposed to be.

    – Mia

  • Mia’s Music Recs (Dad Rock)

    Dear Digital Diary,

    these are my dad rock/surf rock/alt rock/not Rocco the Rock music recs.

    I have more on my Spotify. Do not fret. Click the button below for the best 3 hours and 6 minutes of your life.

    More Jamz

    – Mia

  • Before the Plane Takes Off: Memoir

    Dear Digital Diary,

    occasionally I write memoir pieces.

    Before the Plane Takes Off

    Having what feels like a midlife crisis at the age of twenty-one is both enraging and depressing. Half of my friends were married by February of 2024 but I had just started antidepressants and was in a constant state of derealization and nausea. I’d lay on my bed, alone, ruminating about my life decisions, and how different my life would look if I hadn’t chosen this school at this time or chosen to do that thing — all while my childhood friend slept soundly next to her husband. 

    I felt as though my timeline was off. What I was comparing my timeline to remained a mystery, but what I was doing seemed wrong. Because of that and the lack of control I felt over my own life, I didn’t see any reason not to sign up for an interview to study abroad for a program that had nothing to do with my major. But I was selected. 

    So at the end of June, between my junior year and senior year of undergrad, I found myself exhausted, slightly hungover, and four days ill with COVID in the TSA line of the FCO airport in Rome. I was pursuing a writing degree, but I’d just finished two weeks of intensive drawing in three cities in Italy as a part of a study abroad program for Savannah College of Art and Design. I felt as though this was obvious as the Italian in the black gloves and angry expressions unzipped my carry-on to find two fat sketchbooks, watercolors, graphite, pencil sharpeners, and a half-filled water bottle I’d forgotten to dump. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow and I was too tired to do anything other than shrug. My suitcase looked like the product of an art store raid and couldn’t have been the strangest thing they’d seen. 

    When he finally let me go, I rolled my bag toward my gate and shuffled my shoes across the linoleum. The illustration majors that I’d made friends with over the two weeks had already made it to their gates and I wondered when I’d see them again, or a matter of if. We were different people who all happened to be in the same place, bound by a level of trauma bonding. But I refused to ruminate on that for long — I needed coffee. If there was one thing I’d learned in Europe, it’s that the coffee was strong and in the short time I’d been abroad, I’d become an addict. 

    I didn’t care much for airport food, feeling malaise and all,  but ordered a cappuccino in broken Italian and asked for it in a takeaway cup since it was one of those restaurant settings but I had less than a quarter of an hour before I was set to board. It was made in seven minutes — Italians weren’t those who cared much for the adrenaline rush and seemed not to mind taking their sweet time. I didn’t mind it until I had a schedule, like an 8 pm class or in this case, a flight to catch. 

    Luckily the gate was only a few yards away, so I dragged myself, my bags, and my paper-covered coffee over to a seat. While I’d usually pick a seat in an area that was unoccupied on either side of myself, many of the seats were already full. Reluctantly, I sat next to an older woman, who watched me while I balanced my coffee on top of my suitcase. At first, I thought it was because I was wearing a mask. It was to wear a mask four years post-COVID, although it’s good I did because I tested positive once I landed back in New England. But instead, she pointed at my suitcase. 

    “Do you travel a lot?” she asked. 

    I looked at where she was pointing. My hardtop suitcase, which was my high school graduation gift, was covered in vinyl stickers from most airports I’d stopped at since I’d gotten it: places like Philadelphia (for a Taylor Swift concert), Dallas (wedding), Savannah (school), NYC (Broadway show), and a few more. I couldn’t find a Rome sticker, but then again, the trip wasn’t yet over. 

    I nodded and told her I had, although this was my first trip abroad, and that it was for school. And when she asked which school, I told her. 

    “I’m studying writing there, but I wanted a chance to draw in a foreign country,” I said and pulled my mask down to sip my coffee. Usually, I’d stop talking, but I felt compelled to continue. “My parents are both artists, but they don’t really draw anymore. I wanted to make sure I didn’t do that.”

    “And you haven’t so far,” the woman said. 

    “I guess not.”

    I took another sip of coffee and studied the woman as she looked down at her phone. She had long, gray hair that hung in waves over her shoulders, and skin that wasn’t pale and wrinkled like most old women, but had the skin tone and creases of someone who’d smiled most of the day and laid in the sun. She wore a muted purple top and a wedding ring on her left hand. 

    “Why were you in Rome?” I asked. There were only ten minutes until boarding anyway. For someone who never chose to socialize, I figured it didn’t hurt on occasion. 

    She smiled. “I was visiting my son. He lives with his wife here.”  

    She went on to tell me she has two more sons, both of which live out of the USA, but none of them have children just yet. 

    “I love children,” she said, “but it was my job for many years to teach them, so I’m alright with just hanging around my adult children for a little while longer.”

    I blinked at her. “Were you a teacher?”

    She shook her head. “I was a school therapist. I guess they’re called counselors now, but that’s what I did in Alaska for a while. I was the therapist for students. And I loved it.”

    “I wanted to be a teacher,” I told her. “Then I went to art school instead. Sometimes I’m not sure why I did it.”

    When she smiled at me, her eyes crinkled like she’d done it a thousand times before, almost like how my eyes were starting to form the beginning lines of crow’s feet. “But you’re so young! You’ve got time.”

    “I wonder if I don’t sometimes.”

    She laughed. “Believe me, you’ve got time. I’ve lived longer than you and I still have time, too.”

    We fell quiet then, and I sipped more of my coffee. It occurred to me then that it wasn’t that I hated small talk — I only hated it when it was superficial. Superficial or surface level. I could tell that that woman was neither of those things. 

    “Do you travel a lot?” I asked. 

    She nodded. “I travel to see my kids a few times a year. But when I’m not traveling to them, my husband and I like to visit new countries.”

    “And which is your favorite country you’ve ever visited?” I took out my phone then as if ready to start typing. “For my next trip.”

    The woman thought for a moment. Then she said, “Tonga. I really loved Tonga.”

    I blinked at her. “Tonga?”

    “Tonga.”

    I stared at her in disbelief. “My mother has always wanted to go there. She’s said she wants to go and make tapa cloth.” 

    I didn’t know anyone knew about Tonga. Of course, people knew about it, but it was a very niche sort of thing that certainly didn’t come up in everyday conversation unless it was from my mother’s mouth.

    “Smart woman,” she said. “It was very beautiful and the people were lovely.”

    “That’s what I like most about traveling.” I drained the last of my coffee and put the empty cup on the floor. “Learning about people and how they live and think.”

    “And that’s why I think you’d make a great teacher. If you ever wanted to of course,” she added. “You have a nurturing spirit.”

    It was then that the intercom turned on to announce the first class of boarding. I began to gather my things, slinging my backpack over my tired, aching body. 

    “I think you’ll be just fine doing whatever you want to do,” she said, picking up her bag from the floor. Her silver bangles jangled around her wrist as she did so and she stood.

    I pulled up my mask over my nose and grabbed the handle of my suitcase, standing. I wasn’t much taller than her. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll see you in Boston.”

    I didn’t see her in Boston, nor did I see her on the flight due to the capacity of an international airplane. But I thought about her on the eight-hour flight back home, and then after. Part of me wonders if I’ll one day wake up, look in the mirror, see myself mature and wrinkled, and notice an inkling of her in me. If I do, I feel as though that’ll mean I turned out quite alright.

    End.

  • 30 Things To Do Before 30

    Dear Digital Diary,

    these are thirty things I hope to accomplish in the next eight years.

    Obviously some of these are very out there (I’m looking at you #21) but hey, why not keep life a little more interesting by keeping a bucket list.

    – Mia

  • 1990’s is All That

    Dear Digital Diary,

    I think I should’ve been born in 1973 instead of 2003.

    I know a lot of people say they were born in the wrong era. However, I truly believe I would’ve thrived in the 90s, or the Woodstock era, but that is a story for a different time.

    I’m actually envious of my parents because they got to experience childhood in the 70s, teenage years in the late 80s and their early twenties in the 90s. If I was born the year my dad was, I’d be 22 in 1995, and I would gladly trade in my cellphone, Stranger Things, and Spotify, for 90s fashion trends, peak clubs, and DVDs. To lose something is to gain something that’s much more fulfilling.

    So let’s say I was born in 1973 and got to experience being 22 in 1995. These are some things that I think I’d be obsessed with:

    Maroon/Dark Lipstick

    Without dyeing my hair a warmer tone, I’m a natural dark brunette. There’s something about dark lipstick and dark hair that pairs so nicely together, especially when I’m not my summer complexion and I’m slightly paler than usual.

    Now lipstick is not my favorite thing to wear as I find it too heavy on my lips but Clinique’s Black Honey Almost Lipstick is a godsend and my holy grail. When I wear it I pretend that I’m Courteney Cox in the first season of Friends.

    Tunes by Sublime

    As a Sublime fan I’m well aware that this album wasn’t released until 1996, but for the purposes of this post, we’ll pretend it was released in 1995.

    There’s just something I love about Sublime’s music that I just can’t quite put my finger on. It’s a bit rock, a bit alternative, and if you listen to just the right song, a dog barks for about 20 seconds as the intro. It’s playful, it’s fun, and the lyrics are dirty if you listen closely.

    My mom wasn’t an avid Sublime listener but she often talks about spending her summers in her early twenties on Jones Beach in Long Island, and I think I’d do just that while tuning into 40oz. to Freedom.

    Brad Pitt

    90s Brad Pitt > current Brad Pitt of course.

    So he turned out to be a bit of a cocky asshole, especially after everything that happened with his ex-wife, Miss Angelina Jolie, but the Brad Pitt I would be obsessed with hadn’t lived that just yet.

    I wouldn’t say I have a type, but if I did, it would be this man (although, if you’re my boyfriend reading this, my type is you). But just look at him! The jawline, the hair, the chain, the smirk. Sigh. He was the perfect male celebrity…up until everything he did, of course.

    NYC Nightlife

    I grew up in Maine and I actually can’t spend more than 72 hours in a city without losing my mind and needing to touch grass and meditate for several days. That being said, I’m a huge sucker for clubs and dancing. In a perfect world, I’d live in a cabin by day where I can refuel with my own peace, and then I’d live in a penthouse by night where I can be fully enveloped by the city’s nightlife.

    Because I didn’t live there, I’ve really only got TV shows and films from that period to tell me what it’s like. But Sex and the City is all too appealing, where Carrie Bradshaw would write and then meet up with her friends in a flouncy skirt and kitten heels for a cosmo (or four) where they’d dance the night away. But what sounds better than that?

    Home Telephone/Landlines

    Screenshot from Friends

    I’m not anti-cellphone but I am anti-being-available-24/7. As individuals, we weren’t meant to be at everyone’s fingertips. If I’m at the beach having a quiet moment to myself, I don’t want my boss, LinkedIn, my mom, or even my friends to reach me.

    Maybe I’m just an introvert, but I’d much rather someone leave a message that I can get back to when I’m at home, than having over one hundred unanswered messages when I’m in the middle of Walmart. Sometimes I just like a moment by myself.

    Not to mention there would be a lot less spam texts because, well, you can’t text a landline.

    I Might Be Too Nostalgic

    I’ve noticed I do this thing where I have a hard time living in the present and focus too much on the past, whether it’s 2019 or 1994, an era I didn’t even exist in. That being said, if I separate the nostalgia and turn it into a more creative “what if” sort of thing, like this post, then it becomes a new story. Who would Mia Pratt Goulder be in the 90s? Perhaps much the same but she wouldn’t have access to a MacBook Air.

    – Mia

    What 90s trends and pop culture moments would you be obsessed with? Comment below.

  • My Year of Rest and Relaxation…sorta

    Dear Digital Diary,

    I didn’t find Ottessa Moshfegh’s book boring because I smoked too much weed.

    *for the purposes of anonymity, names in this story were changed.

    I have a few reader friends who said they started reading the book and then had to put it down because they just couldn’t get into it. But that’s just the thing. The book wasn’t titled “My Year of Alertness and Chaos.” It was written to be mundane. And the other thing? It’s not for the mentally well.

    The Day I Met Miss Mary Jane

    Just before I turned nineteen, I smoked weed for the first time. It was a good high, a brief high, and the type that made me happy-go-lucky and nonchalant. I liked it. And as a girl who was raised very Mormon and rather conservative (not politically, don’t fret), I felt rebellious. And the coolest thing about it is that it didn’t have consequences. No hangover. I didn’t make a fool of myself.

    It was pure bliss. By the end of that year (say about three months), I was smoking at least twice per week. It’s not a lot, and that’s probably why my tolerance was relitively low. I didn’t know that of course.

    I Kind of Blame George Minor

    It was the third week of September of 2023. I was a junior and my sister just started her first year at the same college. I hadn’t seen her since move in, and in those first two weeks of that school year, I spent most of my time decorating my new apartment, hanging with friends, and yes, lighting up.

    There was one night in particular, a few days before I was set to travel to Charleston to see Noah Kahan with my sister, where I was at my friend’s house, smoking around the table. This was nothing new. It was just as chill as the various times I’d smoked before.

    That was, of course, until my sister texted me that she had a boyfriend. She met George Minor across the hall within the first few days of living in her dorm and two weeks later they were official. Whereas I, a junior, had entertained zero potential suitors in the two full years of college that I’d been through.

    For context, I went to an art school where a majority of the students are women, and the few men are bi or gay. And unfortunately for me, I swing 98% straight. So that left a very small portion of people at my school.

    So my sister having a boyfriend before recieving her first homework assignment? Brutal.

    It all felt very unfair. So with the phone in my hand, I stared at that green text in the family groupchat while taking a deep inhale from the joint in my other hand. It was a fat hit, but I didn’t cough. I was so fine…until I wasn’t.

    God Bless Don and Maybe God Himself

    Weed doesn’t cause a black out or a hangover. But smoke too much and you might experience something worse.

    I’d loosely heard of the term “greening out” — probably from a book somewhere or maybe it was a guy I’d been talking to on Tinder — either way, I didn’t think it was real until I felt like I was losing my mind.

    It all happened in a rush, no later than ten minutes after my sister texted the group chat. All of the sudden I felt like I hit my forehead, and my friend — we’ll call him Don — started talking to me but I wasn’t processing a thing. He would speak and I would hear him, but it’s like the pathways in my brain weren’t connected properly and I couldn’t put together the sounds to form words.

    I was losing it. I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I needed to throw up (and I’ve got a huge fear of it, mind you), but my throat wasn’t working. Everything was lagging, including trying to cough, trying to breathe, trying to blink. But unlike overdosing on alcohol, I couldn’t purge my body of what I’d smoked. I just had to exist in that space until it was over.

    By this time, I was 20 and hadn’t attended church in four years. But that night, in between three panic attacks and the nape of my neck resting on the back of Don’s dining room chair, I prayed to God at least fifty times. I honestly think that’s the only thing keeping me conscious.

    Luckily, Don slightly knew what was happening, and when I started nodding off (and waking up in a panic), he told me to lay down and explained that I’d be okay once the high had chilled out.

    It took two hours of me drifting in and out of a nauseous sleep with Don’s cat lying next to me before it wore off. 

    And then it was fine. 

    Riiiight up until February.

    Me, Myself, and I

    Now, several factors could’ve led to the ultimate diagnosis of psychosis.

    At the time, my roommate was studying abroad for ten weeks, and I was living alone in my apartment. A family member of mine was going through deep depression and suicidal behaviors. My sister was still dating George Minor. My grandfather was admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery. Everything was falling apart around me, including myself.

    I felt like I was going insane. I was having panic attacks on the daily and I felt extremely disconnected from my surroundings. I couldn’t sleep at night and I couldn’t wake up in the morning which turned into a viscous cycle of using Benadryl to sleep and then drinking two Celsius to wake up. I didn’t know what was real anymore. I started talking to myself and became severly depressed because I was afraid to leave my apartment.

    My mother was extremely anti-medication so I didn’t feel the need to set up any sort of psychiatric appointment until I really felt I needed it. I had googled it — it being psychosis — and I was confident that’s what I had developed, but I still felt as though it were manageable.

    Manageable until I nearly passed out in the middle of one of my classes, to which I immediately left and made my way to the psychiatrist. There, they diagnosed me with psychosis (which I knew), anxiety (which I’d had for years), and OCD (that one was new, actually). Then I was put on hydroxyzine and Prozac with a side of Zofran. The trifecta. 

    And these three drugs made me just as loopy as psychosis did until just after my birthday in April.

    By the start of senior year, the psychosis had platued and I was starting to feel less anxious, too.

    Moshfegh, You Slayed

    Late 2023 into 2024 was, in fact, my year of feeling numb to most things. Hardly rest, hardly relaxation. I’d lost a whole year of my life until one day I felt like I woke up.

    Just as Moshfegh’s unnamed protagonist attempted to sleep for a whole year until finally waking up and accepting what life has to offer, I did the same. And I did it with vigor and vitality — something I hadn’t had since I was younger.

    Will I read the book again? Probably not. It reminded me too much of that whole year of my life. But I understood the novel in a way that those who claimed it was “boring” just didn’t understand. And for that, I thank Moshfegh.

    And will I smoke again? Definitely not.

    I do have herbal joints, though. And I have less depressing books on my shelves.

    – Mia

  • hey, it’s Mia

    Dear Digital Diary,

    I think I’m addicted to social media.

    Or rather, I’m addicted to sharing my life on social media like it’s my own personal diary. Like it doesn’t get published to be viewed by millions of public users, just like myself. The concept of a private account was completely washed when I turned eighteen and my private Instagram was changed to public, per my recent adulthood and the extinguished parental control over my life. 

    At that time I also downloaded TikTok, as did most of the world around the time of COVID (even though it was five years ago now, I refer to this time as though it were yesterday). And the thing about TikTok is that, if you learn the algorithm, it’s easy to go viral. 

    And there’s something oh so therapeutic about posting a video about my singleness, or my new boyfriend, or art school, or financial struggles, etc, etc — basically all things that the public shouldn’t care about. But then having the video go viral because half a million people relate to the fact that dating in your twenties is difficult or all coming to the consensus that there’s a serious decline in the quality of pop music gives me that boost of dopamine that a martini doesn’t even compare to. 

    However, like any addiction, I didn’t see that I was an addict.

    “Oh yeah, I saw that on your TikTok,” my sister told me. “I saw that before you even said anything.”

    Okay, woah. 

    That was a shock. Apparently I’d tell stories or share information to randos on social media (most of which are bots, I’m sure) than actually sharing these stories or information to the real people in my life. 

    That’s when I knew I had to quit. 

    But it’s not cold turkey, of course. That never works. 

    See, just this past May, I graduated from Savannah College of Art and Design with a degree in writing. At my core, I’m a storyteller, a journalist, a sharer of thoughts, a reader and writer of words. Sharing my thoughts and opinions and stories is what I do. But I shouldn’t be doing that on my social media.

    And come to think of it, I should probably just keep writing in my journal. 

    But alas, at 22, my brain hasn’t quite developed to its greatest extent just yet. And so begins the blog. 

    My thoughts and thinkings, unfiltered, about my stories and experiences in the twenty-first century. 

    Don’t worry — I’m still writing my book. 

    But for now, welcome to Mia Pratt Goulder’s Digital Diary. 

    – Mia