This just in—grocery stores provoke mental breakdowns.

I can't quite wrap my mind around the dread that fills my heart when I know it's that special time of week—that's right...grocery shopping day. We all have to do it at some point, don't we? That one day of the week, when you muster all your inner strength and grab those car keys to dive into the unknown? Today was the day. I knew it was coming, too. No matter how hard I tried to ignore it, the nagging voice in my head whispering “when are you going to do it?” lingered in my mind until the moment the car was stopped just feet from those sliding glass doors of death.

Attempting to get my game face on as I walked my way closer to the striped yellow crosswalk, I was pondering the cost of personal shoppers when— HONK! I whipped my head around as I recovered from my heart attack, trying to resist the temptation to flip of the jerk in the minivan using the parking lot as his race track. Things were already looking deadly—literally.

The second I was inside, it became obvious I had once again, underestimated the grocery store's thermostat. The sub-zero temperature hit me like a tidal wave, covering my body in goosebumps. Why are all grocery stores so cold? Why is it necessary? I mean, I get why the milk and the meat have to be cold...but why do all the magazines, paper bags and bottles of shampoo need to be chillin' too?

Choosing not to ignore the masses of unattractive, fat and rude beings cluelessly bustling around me, I scanned the gigantic room for a cart. Rubbing my prickly arms together to create some friction-induced heat, I made my way to the chaotic buildup of carts, shoved haphazardly into the corner. I grabbed one, trying to ignore the fact the metal handle was actually colder than the air.

As I turned to face my doom, I knew I had two options: Either try to make my way through the moshing humans unnoticed and kindly...or barge through as if I'd just remembered I had six kids to pick up at soccer practice—with snack (it was sad that more than one of the customers ahead of me were doing just that...for that very reason). Today, I knew I would have to be stealthy and use force if needed.

Sucking in some oxygen, I pushed on, whipping around corners with determination, grabbing at the items needed. Bread, check. Yogurt, check. Grapes, cherries, tomatoes, lettuce, check. Was it just me, or was the store getting busier? Every isle I attempted was filled with slow moving mouth breathers—just taking in the awe-inspiring aura of the milk. I looked over my list and sadness filled me, forcing myself accept I was only halfway down it. I knew I was going to need back-up. I whipped out my phone, speed-dialing my brother. On his longboard, I knew I could have an accomplice in less than ten minutes. We had a deal within seconds and I gathered my wits about me in order to make it to our meeting place—the deli. Wistfully, I peered over the stacks of Hamburger Helper and Fresca to see it...the red glowing letters “Deli”. I was so close. I estimated about a three minute wait to get there. In front of me, was a myriad of unintelligence, ranging anywhere from sloth-like workers to oblivious children with pushy adults. Tightening my grip on the cart, I took a daring step forward to try and pick up a little cart speed. Then—just as a pregnant woman with two children in tow moved closer to the chip isle—I saw the opening. Plunging into the open space, I shot ahead. A grin spread across my cheeks—I was really cruisin! At this rate, I'd get to the deli in no time. Then, like a gunshot ringing in my head, I saw her. Granny—moving quickly at a perfectly perpendicular angle towards me. Noooooo! I screeched silently, using all my strength to grab the cart and stop. But it was too late. My cart rammed into hers, knocking over her unnecessarily large pile of plastic deck furniture (yes, in her cart. I didn't understand it either). Scoffing, she began squabbling at me like an angry hen, which I just nodded and took for the sake of time. While apologizing and trying my best to get around her, it became apparent that she simply did not understand the concept of getting out of the way (not that she ever had, right?). I then had to squeeze my body through first and then go around the other side of her just to get my damn cart. Sighing, I turned and once again faced a sea of blank looking faces. Losing the tender-hearted approach, I barged through, unleashing my inner soccer mom. (It's amazing what a little indignation will do for ya).

Before long, I was there...right in front of the deli. And there was my brother, waiting patiently. With a sigh of relief, I handed him my list—happy to embark on the remainder of the trip with a partner in crime. With two hands working, we completed our list and made it through the check-out line without ripping out tufts of hair. Then, the second the outdoor warm breeze hit me, I knew I had survived. I made it to the car without any tread marks on my body, and even loaded the groceries successfully—with room to spare. We popped my God-send brother's longboard in the back and hit the road—leaving the grocery store of death in the dust.

BOOM.

A play-by-play on Eastside Highway (aka the Bitterroot Valley's Hell)

I'm driving. Things are going well. No road rage yet. The car (we call her Super-Taurus, although it's the last thing she is) started on the first try today, and the AC is actually staying cold. Even the fact I'm about to go blow all my money on dorm furnishings doesn't bother me.

Then I see it. The sign. ROAD WORK AHEAD. First thought? **********! And I'm only five minutes in!! I'm only a few miles out of town!! Nooooooo! I stomp the brake. Tapping the wheel impatiently, I wait for the doofus in the orange hard hat to turn the stupid stop sign around and let me go. Unfortunately, it scares me how content he looks just standing there with his hand up, as if at any given second, I'm going to forget I'm supposed to be stopped. After a couple of years he finally switches it and lets me go.

The instant joy freedom brings fills me and I race ahead happily. Dave Matthews pops up on my iPod, the car accelerates nicely, and all that's ahead of me is empty road. My thoughts? A little road construction can't stop me. It can't ruin my day.

Then: BOOM. Just like that, I see it. Horse trailer. One o'clock. I gas it, in hopes I'll get ahead of trailer-man by some miracle. It quickly becomes apparent that it's just not in the stars, and I brake hard to let the inconsiderate asshole get in front of me. I glance up to my rearview. Just as I thought--not a single vehicle in sight behind me. But horse-boy just couldn't wait, could he? Of course, now we're going about forty in a sixty five, which really makes me happy.

Before long, a car is behind me. I can tell they're thinking the same thing I am: could we be going any slower? The truth is yes, and in fact, it's nearly guaranteed. As expected, yet another trailer decides to accelerate dangerously quickly in front of our little line of slow moving traffic, only to actually slow the process down even more. It's as if I can hear his thoughts: Oooh, man, I better stamp on the gas as hard as I can in order to get in front of all these cars and deter them even more. My patience is wearing thin as we--all nine of us--continue to slow behind the two huge trailers.

Around a specifically dangerous curve (one that requires an average speed of about 25, you know), my spedometer drops to an incredible twenty miles per hour (remember we're on the "highway" here) and my initial hope is that one of the two blockheads has had the decency to pull over and save us each an ulcer. As we come around the side of the turn, I realize we're not that lucky. He was just being cautious. I should have known.

After about ten minutes, we're back up to top-speed (a whopping 40 mph) and it's like I can feel my blood pressure rising as we continue crawling along. Just as I think I'm about to drive over the Pontiac in front of me out of exasperation, I see the light. Yes--there's no way I could have mistaken it. It's my saving grace--a big, beautiful, yellow blinker flashing just up ahead. Raising my hands in praise, I grip the wheel anxiously, more excited to hit sixty five than I ever had been before. The fact he was doing a stop-and-turn on the highway didn't even bother me--he was turning!

One trailer down--one to go. This was like cake now. Inching my way to the left, I peer down the road ahead to look for obstacles as the automobile-caterpillar starts picking up speed. My eyes scan the road viciously, mapping out my plan of action. This would be my only chance. Biting my lip, I resist a little...then swing my wheel to the left and bolt into the left lane. Before I know it, I'm flying. Super-Taurus is fluttering over the pavement as I leave that trailer in the dust. Shrieking with happy laughter, I slide my way back into the right lane--excited to have a clear view of the road ahead.

But, almost instantly, my smile vanishes. Just like that, BOOM.

ROAD WORK AHEAD.

Wanted...yet impossible. (I'll still cross my fingers for it, though)

In a rigorous desktop study completed on a recent summer evening, something inconceivable was discovered. That's right. The perfect man. And guess what? This perfect man has been outlined in great detail--so there's no way you could possibly miss him (assuming he even exists). Because we're talkin' about a guy you stumble into, talk to for a few seconds and expect to get down on one knee...fast.

The guidelines are specific but there's wiggle room, as perfection is hard to achieve.

This man must be:

1. Educated. Most like to put this one first because they find it pretty vital, and for good reason. Because come on, no one likes a doornail. So, see what he's got. Strike up a conversation and while you're at it--why not use some big words? If he can follow the conversation, he's doing well (and so are you, but remember, we're only on step one).

2. Emotionally stable. Sigh, unfortunately, this one can be a little more difficult to find. This excludes momma's boys, druggies and of course, your basic schizophrenics, autistics and bipolar specimens. Wave goodbye to many. However, there is hope. As crazy as it may seem, normal men exist. (At least we hope and assume).

3. Honest. Now, this one can be one of those ever-changing qualities. Mostly because there is a fine line between being truthful, and emotionally wounding someone for life. Typically, we want someone who is going to thoughtfully say, "You know, that color just doesn't seem right for you" rather than, "Man, those jeans make your ass look like the size of Canada". Obviously, as time progresses within the relationship, a level of honesty will be attained. But keep a watchful eye for those blunt assholes...they can be sneaky sometimes.

4. Sweet/Considerate. Don't fret. This doesn't mean "sissy". (Although sometimes you can mistake a genuine sweetheart for one of those bleeding heart romantics. But if that's your type, by all means--go for it. However, when he's crying harder than you are during a Nicolas Sparks movie, you could be in trouble.) By sweet, we mean perhaps: 1. Flowers on appropriate (and rare) occurrences 2. Simple, kind phrases including things like "you look very pretty today", or 3. Awareness and consideration towards your feelings, moods and thoughts.

5. Attractive. The kicker. Things are already looking a little impossible, and now the looks have been piled on top. Because who are we kidding--humans are vain. How are you going to even give this potentially smart, normal, honest and sweet guy a chance--if he isn't the Brad Pitt on the block? That's right, you're not. This isn't to say he has to be flawless; as long as he's got good hygiene and average mannerisms, you're probably good to go. Pickiness tends to vary.

Of course, there are variables to be considered depending on the person. That list can get long, including qualities that should be present after choosing as male. These qualities can often involve: Being responsible, being faithful, having a sense of humor, being good with kids, having ambition and owning an open mind. Usually, the instructions outlined above are enough to get you a basic shiner, the rest is just extraneous bonus points. Remember--keep the standards high, ladies. Love is not a thing to be tampered with.

Don't forget to read the fine print!

Unfortunately, due to limited testing specimens, evidence is not concrete and results may vary. But we do wish you luck.

Words of the wise.

"What we call the beginning is often an end.

And, to make an end is to make a beginning.

The end is where we start from.

Perhaps someday it will be pleasant to remember even this.

One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful.

Sadness flies away on the wings of time.

This, too, shall pass."

The Never-ending Pretender

You know those endless mirror conversations you have with yourself? Come on, it's okay to admit it. You know what I'm talking about--where that mirror could be your worst enemy, future boyfriend or even a simple confidant(you can fill in the blank depending on the day). Mine are typically frequent in the morning while I'm getting ready for my day. And of course, the conversation always goes exactly where I want it to.

Sometimes, I'll talk to that bitch of a best friend and tell her exactly what I wish I'd said. Then I ask myself if I'm simply wasting my time...I mean, she's water under the bridge, right? Maybe. But somehow, ripping that mirror a new one feels like it helps the lingering anger.

On occasion, it's the legendary ex-boyfriend. The list is endless when it comes to spicy comebacks and genius sarcasm. It feels easy--and it always feels like after all that damn practice, I should be a pro when it comes to actually doing it.

Too bad I'm horribly wrong. Because no matter how many novel responses I can formulate in my head NOW from past conversations, nothing can prep me for the future.

And tonight, here they are, yet again....acting like the superior being they're convinced they are, spouting their ever-wise insight and inner wisdom like never before. Even through simple words on a text, or a Facebook message, I can hear their cocky voice with that sickening edge waiting to scald my words. Say something, say something, that edge begs. Say something I can prove wrong. Please just say it. Let me prove you wrong.

Thing is, they will be wrong, but they'll never know it. They never did, why would they start now? They will never know it. They will never know how wrong they are. And the best I could ever do was pretend not to notice.

Who is Ellie Wilson?

Well let me introduce her.

"I cherished being alone that summer, because being alone meant I didn’t have to deal with all the parties, the endless faces, the smoke, the noise...basically everything and anything that could remind me of Jeremy. And honestly, I had finally gotten to the point where I just didn’t want to think about him anymore. After spending years trying to salvage a doomed romance, I was tired of love. Jeremy had sucked me dry; it was definitely safe to say I wasn’t looking for loving companionship anymore, if not avoiding it all together. Alana didn’t get it. Mostly because she had a boyfriend, but also due to the fact she was too busy off being queen of the male species. Don’t get me wrong, Alana was a fabulous friend and one of those few humans justified in being called perfect. Long, curly dark hair framed her heart shaped face, sprinkles of freckles lined her button nose and long, thick black lashes enclosed a pair of ice-blue eyes. The typical pessimist, but extremely loyal. Easily bored. Saggitarius. In short, the only person who possibly succeeded at being my friend.

You see, I couldn’t make up my mind. About anything. Sometimes, I wore glasses. Sometimes I hated them, and wondered why I’d wasted my parent’s money to get them. Then I couldn’t see shit when I was driving and I remembered why I’d wanted them in the first place...because I needed them; but I didn’t actually like them. Maybe that was a stupid example, but that’s sort of what it was like in my brain at all times. Except, it was much worse in real life, because in real life there are all these huge, important decisions to make. Granted, it wasn’t that I couldn’t make them, but that I would always change my mind later. This applied to people, my hair color, sometimes even my Subaru--which swung between the love of my life and the inanimate object representing the hole that still burned in my pocket."

-Ellie Wilson...so far. She's my main character...and also an impossible feat to overcome. I swear, writers block will be the death of me. I hit 100 pages and lost the mojo. Awesome.