Pizza Tattoos & Apple Bongs

Thoughts I had while making this site:

1. OMG I can’t believe I’m doing this
2. Thinking of a name for a blog is really stressful
3. I’m just going to stop thinking about attempting to come up with a cheeky name and go with the first thing I thought of.
4. Aaaaaand now I want pizza.
5. Wait what do you mean I have to pay for this
6. Oh, only $4 a month? I can do that
7. ………..Why do I have to pay upfront? Doesn’t WordPress know that $48 MAY bankrupt me?!
8. How do I make this thing cute
9. *googles drawings of pizza & champagne*
10. Do I need an artsy single needle pizza tattoo on my forearm?
11. Am I supposed to hook this thing up to my Instagram? My Instagram is definitely not cool enough to be blogworthy
12. Maybe I should make a new Instagram. MAYBE I’LL BECOME A FAMOUS INSTAGRAM BLOGGER AND WILL GET FREE WATCHES FROM DANIEL WELLINGTON or at least that fake ass flat stomach tea that 100% does not work which I only know because I fell for the trap when I saw one of the girls from the Bachelor hawking it and decided I MUST try it
13. The theme of this layout is called Radcliffe. Maybe I should have named the blog something to do with Harry Potter…
14. I wish I had a pet owl.
15. I should do a facemask when I get home my blackheads are really out of control
16. I wonder if Instagram bloggers have blackheads
17. I’ve always made fun of people with blogs. There was this girl in college who had one and she was The Worst.
18. I vow not to be The Worst. And not to make fun of myself.
19. Jk. I’ll always make fun of myself.

Real talk though. Hey, I’m Ailsa, as I’ve already said. I know it’s an odd name. I’m named after the Ailsa Craig; an island off the coast of Scotland. It means Fairy Rock, or Elf Victory, depending on the Scot you ask and how drunk they are/how much Gaelic they have. I decided to start writing this blog because in the past few years I’ve been through some shit; the shittiest of which is my mom passing away in July of 2018. I’ve been walking around with all of these thoughts in my head and nothing to do with them except drunkenly ramble on at wing night with my girlfriends while they’re trying to watch football or catch the eye of the dashingly handsome yet douchey guy chugging bud lights in the corner clad in Brooks Brothers or Patagonia. And Lord knows they’re probably sick of hearing about me missing my mother, my rotten ex-boyfriends, being convinced I will never meet anyone and am destined to be alone for the rest of my life, and the fact that I’m so poor I can no longer afford to buy “name brand” peanut butter. Is that even a thing? Unclear.

So here’s some more about me before I delve into the kooky, quirky, wee bit creepy, fairly funny (if I do say so myself) void that is my mind. I’m in my mid-20s and reside in Brooklyn, NY. I’ve lived in the Big Apple since 2010 when I moved here from Kentucky to go to a small liberal arts college. I work as a publicist in Manhattan, and if I could be anything I’d be a suitcase, so I could travel the world. Or Lily James. I love Lily James. And she also seems to get to travel a fair amount. If I could eat only consume two foods for the rest of my life it would be pizza and wine, because yes, in my book wine deserves its own food group. I have some pretty intense anxiety & depression and take medication daily for them both and don’t care who knows it. One of my oldest friends called me the OG Basic Bitch the other day, and it was probably the best thing anyone has said to me since my friend Storm told me I had a big butt on my 23rd birthday. Don’t worry though I don’t do the whole leggings/uggs/north face with a PSL thing in the fall. Only the PSL. I wear a tad too much eyeliner; know a whole lot about nothing; can quote Mean Girls, Love Actually, & every one of the Harry Potter movies word for word; can’t budget to save my life; and I love London and have sworn I will move there one day soon with my [future] chubby dachshund named Baguette.

♥ ♥ ♥

My world was shattered into about a million little pieces when my mom died on July 22, 2018. She had cancer. It sucked. Correction: It sucks. Everyone keeps telling me that things will get better in time and every time I hear that I think I should be allowed to tell them to fuck off or punch them in the face. Or both.

Mom was my best friend. We would text 24/7 about stupid shit & I’d call her on my walk home from the subway every day: I’d tell her about what I did at work, she’d bitch to me about her friends, I’d send her a pic and ask her, “do these jeans made me look fat?” Sometimes she said yes. Because she was awesome and cool and honest and my person. All her/my friends called her Lala, though her name was Laura. I’m pretty sure they liked her better than me. Nah I’m 100% sure they liked her better than me. Once we went to Coachella with her favorite band, MGMT, and smoked weed out of a homemade apple bong with them backstage at their trailer (she later made us all Mint Juleps because we’re from Kentucky, and why not?). She was seriously the coolest.

 

She wasn’t afraid of dying. She always said she knew exactly where she was going. She was only afraid of leaving & breaking our hearts.

She was 54.

I was 25.

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I love those who can smile in trouble, who can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. ‘Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but they whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves their conduct, will pursue their principles unto death.

-Leonardo da Vinci