The Brave Little Toast Bar: My Discovery of the Trending 'Toast Buffet'

Ohhhh...look at that sexy toast right there.

Living in a growing (ha) city like Denver, Colorado I thought I’d been up to date on my foodie trends. My friend's friend started a sushi food truck last summer and I’ve been all up in that business.

But then I took a trip to the Midwest this July to see some college buddies and everything changed.

“Let’s go to the Toast Bar,” my college buddy Sami said as we rolled out for a morning on the town.

“The what?” I asked.

The idea that toast could blow my mind sounded ridiculous, childish even. I liked the idea that it was a "bar" of sorts. But what could be so thrilling about a piece of bread?

Tucked into the art district of downtown Minneapolis, MN was a build-your-own-toast buffet. Included were three different homemade jams, four flavors of nut butters (step aside peanut, there are some new nuts in town), an Egyptian honey, and more cheeses than I could have ever hoped for.

“You mean I get to put whatever I want on there?” I asked the lady behind the counter while eyeing the tubs of butter.

Nothing against pancakes, but who knew toast could be so great am I right?

Since my stay at Canteen I have been on the hunt for the best toast bars in town. They've been trending in the Midwest and beyond. But I have yet to find something as great as that first time. I literally haven't stopped thinking about toast since that fateful day in July. It's kind of a problem, actually. 

Like any first time, it’s shrouded in mystery and nostalgia.

Plenty of my favorite brunch restaurants in Denver, City O’ City, Snooze, and Jelly, offer French toasts, pancakes, and build-your-own omelets. But I have yet to discover the illusive Toast Bar.

But I shan’t give up. I will march on in my pursuit for the perfect toast experience. I will walk boldly into the unknown on my never-ending hunt for golden and buttery perfection.  

Photo credit: Google.com

For where would that Brave Little Toaster be if he didn’t take a leap of faith off that trash compactor to save Blanky?

Dead. He’d be dead.

Writing About Writing

“Stop trying so hard to be a writer,” I wrote the words carefully in my leather bound as he said them, smiling brightly to hide my shame.

I was sitting in the second row in a cramped basement of a writer’s workshop, “From Obsession to Publication.” I capitalized on the dessert tray and snagged a spot for my friend Kristen and I among a sea of retirees.

“Dude, everyone in here is like 40 years older than me,” I poked Kristen in the crook of her elbow. With the exception of her, 10 years my senior, I was the least wrinkled person in the room.

Kristen and I had signed up together a few days prior. On an endless competition to both simultaneously get published and take over the world with our literary genius, we enrolled ourselves in a workshop as a part of Denver Lighthouse Writer’s Lit Festival to gain insight.

This particular workshop was centered around using our obsessions –obscure, endearing, or otherwise –to hone our craft as writers.

Youthful and ignorant I, calling myself a “writer.”

I’d only even considered the title of writer after spending a year and some odd months writing my first manuscript. Followed by a blog, several notebooks full of stand-up material, and another manuscript. I knew my success so far as a “writer” was fairly limited and indeed laughable.

The only publication I’d yet to receive was a snippet in HealthOne Colorado’s “Spalding Rehabilitation Success Story” in which a picture of my own head was photo shopped onto a different picture of my own body.

It’s in my classroom if you want to see it.

I show it to my students sometimes after standardized testing when we all need a good laugh.

But despite the hilarious reality that my mother might be the only one reading this (thanks Mom, you the real MVP), I decided over the past year that I wanted to be a writer, author, publisher of all things witty and fun, and future resident of Ellen DeGeneres's lovely white couch.

"Thank you, thank you, Ellen. Yes, it's great to be here- "

I wanted all these things and more, and still do, and until recently nobody ever said that this was a bad idea.

“Yeahhhhhhh,” the leader of the workshop and successful and published author winced in my direction.

“Stop trying so hard to be a writer, I can just hear it in your tone. Also get rid of all the ‘fucks.’ It’s not precise and I don’t like it,” He might have said more, I can’t be sure.

But it was too late, the words had hit me like a jagged ice pick to my soul, or a rusty arrow to my arteries. I don’t know some stupid cliché that you’re not supposed to say because writers, they say, are above that peasant crap.

I didn’t actually disagree with him entirely. We’d only been writing these pieces for thirty minutes or so and, as any writer, I thought it was an absolute piece of shit.

What confused me rather was that Kristen and I were the only ones in that tiny cramped basement to get any negative feedback after volunteering to read our pieces out loud. Because I am an attention whore by trade, I loved the idea of practicing the art of writing and then sharing that art with complete strangers.

After all, everyone so far who read their work was getting great feedback, why should my art by any exception?

I wrote a piece about the first time I fell in love; a noteworthy obsession, I thought.

I’d been thinking about the topic lately, not because I missed him or wanted to relive the traumatizing event that was two years ago, but because my editor told me to.

“Your readers need to fall in love with him like you did, they need to know why you spent five years with this guy or else they’ll be like, ‘yeah, he was a jerk, we get it’ and will move on.” She said.

She couldn’t be more right. And now, two years later sitting in a room of elderly and experienced writers, I felt called to the task.

“James was my guy,” I wrote replacing his usual name of “Weasel” or “Shit-stain” with something a bit more humanizing.

“At 17 years old I could hardly manage my thick curly locks or my rambunctious spirit, but I was ready for my guy. To sweep me off my tiny feet, to love me for all my quirks, to call me his girl.”

Oh my goodness, how cute is that, I smiled to myself as warm memories of old dirt roads and tractors rushed back to my brain.

When it was my turn to read I perked up. I was slightly peeved that the woman ahead of me had just talked about her obsession with a Zach, but the fancy author man had loved it and I was sure that he’d love mine too.

I took a deep breath and tried to consciously remember to breathe as I read my heartfelt recollection of a first love.

Aaaaand done.

Exhale. Boom. Crushed it.

Nope. Sure didn’t.

In addition to my apparent air of “trying too hard” he also took issue with my cursing. I’d used an F-bomb to describe how stupid I looked meeting him for the first time, bundled up in tight bell-bottoms, a heavy black hooded sweater, and a thick knitted hat.

In fucking July, my friends.

I suppose this feedback about the potty mouth might have gone over smoother in my brain had the leader of the workshop not been a potty mouth himself. At the start of the workshop he gabbed about his 4 year old daughter’s obsession with hummus.

“She’s such a fucking asshole, you guys. Really,” He chuckled. I liked him immediately.

So logically I threw in some colorful words thinking that he’d fucking love it.

Nope. He did not fucking love it.

Sorry, Mom.

When he finished giving me the feedback he smiled and moved on to what I thought would be the next bloody victim to his ego-crushing honesty. An older gentleman, easily in his 70’s, stood up and talked about his obsession with women’s bodies and experiencing puberty for the first time. I found it pervy, strange, and poorly written.

But alas, to the published author it was amazing and thoughtful. Not pervy at all.

At this point I started to cry quietly in my second row chair, trying not to make eye contact with Kristen for fear of bursting into absolute hysterics. Kristen read my body language and grabbed my notebook and began writing me a note:

“You are so brave to read and it takes a lot of courage to take constructive criticism –there will be a lot of disappointment followed by a lot of hard work and then a lot of success. I love you!”

Her words, while what I wanted to hear, turned me further into a sniffling pile of goo.

The workshop had ended. I ran my sleeves haphazardly over my leaking eyes.

“We gotta’ get out of here,” I announced as I made a mad dash to beat the sluggish old people out the door.

Kristen and I walked the breezy Denver streets for an hour as I cooled off and tried to figure out what in the hell had just happened in there.

“What if I’m not a writer?” I said.

“What if he’s right? What if I end up just like them? 75 years old at a writer’s workshop, still working on my Great American Novel?”

I was terrified. That this whole “trying to be a writer” business was a joke, or more accurately, that I was a joke.

The words cut me deeper than I expected, probably because I’d signed up to read a five minute passage of my book, Break Ups and Brain Hemorrhages: How You Can Make it Through Anything that evening at a Lit Fest event to about 50 strangers. And my mother.

If I received such criticism here, there would be no telling what would happen that night. And what if the leader of the workshop was there?

I could just picture it.

I’d fumble with the microphone just long enough to become immediately annoying to my audience.

“Stand up straight, you’re slouching again!” my mother would call from the front row, an inch from my face.

I’d line up my pages on the stand, but just as I opened my mouth a gust of wind would send them flying onto the face of the cute guy I’d invited. I’d graciously take the papers from his gorgeous hands only to realize that it was actually my grocery list, a crumpled up napkin, and a Comcast bill.

I’d laugh, trying to recall my most recent stand up routine without them noticing, but would soon be sent running from the stage as a garden variety of cabbage and heirlooms came flying at my head.

“Who brought the fucking cabbage? Amateurs!” I’d scream as I dodged another head of lettuce from behind the wine table.

“I tried to tell you,” Mr. Author Man would shake his head in embarrassment.

I know, I have very vivid stress dreams.

None of this happened, however. Because I totally crushed it. Watch the video below to see me slay the shit out of this reading, seriously. Slay.

The feedback and laughter from the audience was amazing and the boy I invited was cool as a cucumber about my surprise, “Oh look, my parents are over there, let’s go say hi” rendezvous.

I’m trying really hard to be a writer. I’m taking classes and asking stupid questions and spending a lot of time drinking coffee. It’s a grueling task and some days it’s hard to see if it’s ever going to be worth all the late nights, shitty first, second, third, and fourth drafts, and overwhelming self-doubt.

There will always be critics, cynics, and haters.

My friends and family will continue to cheer me on as I sob in public places about the condition of my books. I will soldier on for as long as it takes, counting down the days until I get to sit on Ellen’s couch and dish about who’s going to play me in a Broadway-adapted rendition of my book.

Which would be me, obviously.

Or, okay, Anna Kendrick. She’s about my size, has killer pipes, and would match well with Bruce Willis, who would play my neurosurgeon, Dr. C.  

"My brain just exploded. Boom."

Shout out to Dr. C-Money. If you’re reading this, you’re still entirely too attractive to be that old. Calm it down, Dr. C.

Calm. It. Down.

Anyway. No matter how long it takes, I’m going to be a writer.

And I’m going to do it really fucking well.

Don't Forget Brain Month!

OH BABY. TALK BRAINY TO ME.

When I take my Thyroid medication in the morning I throw back my water cup, screw the little lid back onto the bottle, and flip the container upside down.

That last part is key.

If I don't flip it upside down then I never took it. Or at least that's what my brain thinks, anyway. Unfortunately my brain cannot hold onto whether or not I took this medication essential to my health and well being.

I actually can't recall if I took it this morning, so that's fun.

Last year I forgot about Brain Injury Awareness month because like the location of my keys, wallet, and cellphone, this information was beyond me.

How fucking ironic. 

A brain injured person forgetting a month dedicated to them. This is actually quite hilarious if you ask me. I also wrote this post about a month ago and am just now posting it.

Figures.

But this year I made a point to remember that I am not alone in brain injury. And I wanted my students with brain injuries to know that they are not alone either.

That's where the brain facts come in.

Every day this month I have been reading out brain facts to my students. Some have to do with which centers of the brain control certain functions, others with addiction, and some just flat out cool shit about how our brains run this show without us even realizing it. 

Like did you know the language center of the brain responsible for speech has different pathways to neural connections than the part responsible for reading?

Freaking cool, you guys.

Some days my kids are reluctant to hear the brain fact of the day, rolling their eyes at another silly brain pun. Other days they refuse to do any work until I read them off a new one. They even correct me when I repeat an old fact from the week before.

"You already told us about how similar sugar is to cocaine to the brain, Miss! Give us a NEW one!"

I even showed them some of my "brain videos" of me in rehab rolling around my hospital room in my wheelchair popping wheelies.

We all had a good laugh. 

It's startling to see how far I've come since then; a frail, silly excuse for a human trying to do tricks over broomsticks and skipping down hallways with tennis-ball-clad walkers. 

And up until now I never really understood what it all meant. To have a month dedicated to all this. 

And then I got a note from a kid on one of my worst days on the job. 

Picture two tiny mice sprinting across my classroom as twenty Freshmen leaped over desks and squealed. This was not my idea of an engaging Geography lesson.

I was being upstaged and I was not amused.

The mice were derailing my 5th hour and nobody accomplished anything but adequately pissing me off by continuing to discuss the size, shape, and color of the intruders for the entire class period. It got so bad at one point that one mouse was doing a sprint routine up and down the length of the room and I threw everyone out in the hallway.

"This is ridiculous. Everyone out. OUT."

What a disaster. We tried to work on our Mayan packets but all seemed lost.

By the time 6th hour rolled in I was exhausted and peeved; utterly incapable of dealing with one more disruption. 

Someone tested me again by popping the N word to his friend like it was no big deal.

"Excuse me?"

"Miss, I wasn't saying it to you, chill."

"No I will not chill. We don't use that language in here and you know that. 10 push-ups. Now."

He reluctantly moved to the carpet. 

I have a rule in my classroom. You curse and you owe me push-ups. Some kids make it a daily routine. Drop an F-bomb. Drop and give me ten. It may be a little corporal-punishment-y for some, but it works. Also you have the option of a parent phone call.

9 out of 10 kids prefer a little exercise.

I tried helplessly not to roll my eyes at this utter waste of a day. 

"Miss, are you okay? You seem...off today..." The kids know. They always know.

"Oh, I'm fine. Just a long day, that's all," I lied.

I continued with my lecture on the Cold War and hoped to the heavens that I would survive the day without my brain re-exploding all over my dusty teacher desk.

As 6th hour left at the sound of the bell, I went back to my desk to take attendance that I'd forgotten to take all day. No surprise there.

By my computer was a small note, folded up with tiny hearts and the words "Open Me" scrawled on it.

As 7th hour sauntered in I opened it curiously. It read:

Dear Ms. Hayes,

You're the greatest teacher to ever exist! You actually make learning fun and make school fun. I love coming to this class because you're always so happy and smiling, I could easily have a really bad day and the moment I step into this class all my worries are gone! I can trust you as someone to come to when I'm having problems, you're like the psychologist I need, someone I can talk to! I really appreciate you Ms. H! You're amazing and so wonderful! Don't let anyone tell you otherwise! You're so brave and strong and that's also why I look up to you because we both had a brain injury, and we still managed to keep moving forward! Yay us!!! If you're ever having a hard or tough day just remember how far you've come and why you became a teacher! I love you so much Ms. H! You're like a mom but here at school. I hope you have a great rest of your day! Love you!!!

Your favorite student always,

Alice E. , 10th Grade

It took a while for it to sink in, most likely because I had to greet 7th hour and lead them through their case studies without someone smacking someone else or throwing a pencil across the room. But when I took the time to read it again that night I cried and cried.

It felt like I had waited my whole life to hear the words. 

I had bonded with Alice before about our shared experiences of brain injuries. She told me that she hadn't felt like herself since her stroke and that school was hard for her now. I couldn't help but feel for her. Being so young with a brain injury, things would likely get harder for her trying to get through school.

I felt lucky to have had my brain explode after college. There would be no way I could have finished my degree with my lack of focus and inability to remember anything. 

But she said the words, "look how far you've come" as if she was right there with me when I couldn't do anything. 

Back when being able to read a text message without double-vision was a good day and when my go-to outfit was stretchy pants and a stained t-shirt. 

Now I am executive functioning at top speeds. 

I put make up on my face without poking my eye out, am currently wearing heels that I can walk in without falling off a curb, and even drove a car this morning.

I teach students to be their best selves as I strive to be my own.  

I am doing everything my body never dreamed of doing back in 2014. And the fact that someone else could see that and looked up to me for that reason simply blew my mind. 

Brain injuries are silent disabilities.

They impact people in unique and strange ways. What Alice didn't know that day is that just a few short years ago I never would have expected to be standing in front of a group of teenagers imparting my quasi-wisdom, much less standing without a nurse nearby to catch me when I inevitably tumbled off the sidewalk.

For every step I take there's a neuron hard at work. Every movement a reminder of who I once was, and will always be.

On my year anniversary I posted a picture of me in my hospital bed after brain surgery; a stuffed elephant on my head and a lopsided smile, my face puffy from brain drugs. I shared my excitement at how far I'd come and thanked my friends and family for getting me through my "brain days."

A woman who I didn't know, but followed me on Instagram congratulated me on the accomplishment but told me "not to dwell" because it was "all about the future."

Dwell?

Wait. Isn't dwelling a negative thing?

I almost wanted to smack her through my cellphone screen.

How can I appreciate the future if I don't respect where I've been? Why forget the past when it's made me who I am today?

That's the whole reason why we have Brain Injury Awareness Month, people!

I don't expect sympathy. I don't ask for pity. I simply want to show my humbleness for an organism that nobody can fully understand. I want to share my story so that others are empowered to share their own.

Unlike my keys, wallet, and cellphone, I will never forget Brain Injury Awareness Month.

And that's a pretty big deal these days.

Men Explain Things to Me: Comedy

No, please. Tell me more about what I don't know.

Many women are familiar with the term “Mansplaining.”

It’s when men explain things to you rather than ask you questions about whatever it is that they assume you don’t know.

Now, let’s be clear, not every man is a Mansplainer, not every man thinks I’m a dimwit, and certainly not every man is out to get me.

But a man explained comedy to me last night.

After three months of consistently going to the same open mic and trying to get to know as many comedians as I could, this one had no idea I existed.

I walked up to him as he was talking to my roommate at the bar, who had the courage after me peer pressuring her to get on the stage for the first time.

She slayed it by the way.

The Mansplainer was giving her some advice. Then when I joined the conversation, he gave me some advice too.

“You just have to find your voice, you just have to be comfortable in your own skin up there…”

Sound advice, good sir.

Did you know I actually practice my stage presence every day in front of apathetic teenagers?

“Wait, did you get up there tonight?” He asked like a moron.

“Yes, yes I did.” I smiled.

“Oh, congratulations!” Yes, how very bold of me.

“I’m actually here every Friday night, so is she…” I motioned to my roommate, my perpetual groupie and witness to every rough open mic I’ve ever had.

The problem with this situation wasn’t that he asked me these questions, it was that he assumed that I had no idea what I was talking about.

Comedians are known to not pay attention to each other. Hence the uncomfortable silence last night at even my best material.

Comedians aren’t always the most supportive audience members. They sit in large groups in the corners, talk while others are on stage, and have probably heard your jokes before.

They’re not impressed.

The Mansplainer was also not impressed by me. The bulk of our conversation revolved around him explaining improv and comedy schools of thought to me as I smiled and nodded.

I kept waiting for him to actually ask me a question; maybe to find out more about my 6 year comedy experience, running an improv troupe in college, or taking a UCB class last summer. Maybe he’d ask me about my writing. Maybe he’d be interested to know that I write for comedy daily and hardly ever do the same material.

Maybe not.

“That’s the biggest mistake new comics make…doing new material every time. That’s how I started out. Big mistake.”

Oh, really? I’m expected to stick with my same Luke warm material to recite back to you chumps every time and keep playing the same old tune like all of you?

I’m sorry. But I’ve seen your A material. And your B material. And even your C material when you’re feeling bold. It’s the same jokes. On the off-chance that a comedian works out new bits, I listen to them.

Because I like to think I’m not an asshole.

I give them laughs when I can and I make eye contact.

Hence my extreme frustration when Mansplainer did his whole sh-peel. Throughout which I smiled some more, nodded again, and tried not to be too abrasive when I inserted my own knowledge of comedy into our conversation.

I finally got too frustrated with trying to prove myself worthy of comedy to the Mansplainer and moved on to another conversation with a comedian sitting next to him, a fellow teacher.

Now this is where shit got cool.

Me and the teacher comedian talked for easily half an hour as Mansplainer tried to insert his knowledge into a conversation that he clearly knew nothing about.

“So wait, you like go to teacher school?”

“Yep, social studies certified. I teach U.S. History and Geography. High school.”

Boom.

Could it be possible that I was smarter than him in this content area? Could it really be?

I pretty much ignored him for the rest of the night because I was way too excited to talk to another teacher comedian who taught abroad in China and had some really cool insights.

It was so refreshing to feel like we were speaking the same language. And more importantly, that this man was not Mansplaining teaching to me, but rather asking me about my experiences and genuinely listening to what I had to say.

This, my friends, is how you shut down a Mansplainer. Right then and there we successfully turned the tables.

But this is hard to do, especially if you don’t have an advocate. Someone who can stand up for you and point out that you do indeed deserve to be a part of the conversation, and you might actually know a thing or two about the topic at hand.

We should be our own advocates too.

Too often I smile and nod when being talked down too; afraid of hurting someone’s feelings or wrecking my reputation by being honest with someone.

People are shocked that my spunky personality works with high school students and not infants.

People are shocked that despite my youthfulness I have a teaching certificate, Bachelor’s degree, and also drive a car.

The Mansplainer’s eyes went wide when I brightly told him and the teacher that a good day in the classroom was 60% attendance, having a single pencil to loan out, and not having wads of paper fly past my head.

Being a teacher makes me extremely qualified to be a comedian.

I wish more teachers would do it. Who else could relay stories about 5th hour’s daily behavior? Who would tell the story about El Chapo, the classroom plant, or Eli’s fascination with my relationship status?

I’m a teacher, comedian, writer, and lover of cheeses.

I’m a lot of things.

But don’t you dare explain any of them to me.   

What Happens When You Stop Scrolling

According to the internet, a significant amount of people are "chugging heroin" and "punching strangers." Learn something new every day.

We’ve hit that sweet spot.

That time of year when we really decide if the statement “New Year, New Me” will really mean anything or if we will just divert back to our silly old selves and down another late night box of Krispy Kremes.

The fireworks have subsided, we’re slowly coming out of our New Year’s hungover hazes; it’s game time.

For those of you that don’t know, or don’t care to know (although I think I can safely assume that if you are reading this you care to know…Hi Mom) I’ve been in an online dating frenzy since my last long term relationship several years ago. The conversation went like this:

Lexi: “You should get Tinder…”

Me: “I don’t know how to build a fire…”

*hands phone*

Me: “Hey! This guy likes me!”

And the rest, they say, is ridiculous history.

Right after the New Year I ended my decidedly last Tinder adventure. The conversation came after two months of hanging out with a nice gentleman who I thought could be the end of my ceaseless venture for love on a screen.

Well, he was the end to be sure. But not in the way I’d hoped.

“Hey, have you given any thought to where you see this going?” I said stupidly after handing him a loaf of stale banana bread and a Christmas card.

“Yeah, about that…I don’t see this going…well, anywhere.”

The last two months of my life went up into the air and disappeared with a metaphoric poof noise.

He calmly explained to me that he didn’t believe in relationships, that he didn’t ever see himself with anyone for the rest of his life. He told me that he wanted to be selfish and take care of himself.

All good things I thought, but that didn’t make me turn any less a shade of Sheet of Paper White.

It then occurred to me that to this man, this older, unmarried man, I was interchangeable. It didn’t seem to bug him that we’d been spending a good deal of time together for the past two months.

He didn’t seem to be “catching the feels” like I was.

But the idea that I could be anyone –the funniest, smartest, most supermodel-like woman on the planet –none of that would matter because this man truly doesn’t want to open himself up to another human that way. And that I was trying to negotiate who I was in the process was completely ludicrous.

This is what screens can do to you.

They can give you what you want in the moment. An attractive face, a pleasant conversation, an endless running document of engagement updates that reassure you that you will indeed die alone.

But what happens when you stop scrolling?

Can you even stop? Is there a way?

It had never occurred to me that this, this simple little toxic thing could make or break my happiness for 2016. When I got home from the heartbreaking conversation that left me wondering if I’d ever find love I deleted my online dating accounts.

This can’t be the only way, it just can’t be.

Mindless scrolling through faces and “About Me” bios that have only led me down the path of destruction and heartache; there’s just got to be a better way.

But I always do this, I thought. I delete it all and then go back after a few months of boredom. But why? Why am I even bored in the first place?

Is my life that comparable to staring at a blank wall that I feel the need to do these things?

Of course not.

If you spent even thirty seconds in my classroom you’d find that the word “boredom” does not exist here.

To research for myself how much better my life could be without scrolling, I went ahead and deleted Facebook off my phone as well. I still exist out there, but now this means that I have to physically get on a computer to scroll, which is a lot slower and leads to much smaller amounts of time spent mindlessly rolling through other people’s lives.

Low and behold this is what I have discovered since I have made these two tiny changes:

1. I see things more.

2. I see people more.

3. I don’t know when people’s birthday’s are.

4. I have more time to read.

5. I have more time to write.

6. I have more time for a lot of things.

7. I call people more.

8. I don’t get as jealous of other people’s lives.

9. I don’t hate myself for wasting my life on my phone.

10. I don’t get gross or sexist messages from unidentified gentleman callers.

11. I have more time to cook and don’t accidentally set things of fire because I’m not paying attention.

12. I’m existentially happier.

There you have it.

Scrolling can numb our brains and often make us hate ourselves. It dehumanizes us and is absolutely no fun when used in excess, which is how most of us use it. Technology and “social” networking are here to stay, but we don’t have to start the zombie apocalypse just yet. We have the power to control how we spend our time and what we spend it on.

Sure, you can still find me laughing it up on Snapchat about my hilarious teacher life and occasionally posting videos of my comedy on Instagram, but you can rest easy knowing that this gal is #TinderFree2016 #FreeFromTheScreen2016

Pretty much anything that rhymes with “free” and “2016.”