And we're back.

2017 is not turning out to be my favorite year ever, but I’m not looking for a pity party.  Ladies and gentlemen, I am newly single and have already continued my rampage of breaking hearts across San Francisco (sorry to Sergei, my brief Muni romance).  As he said after I texted him that it turns out I’m not into 40-year-old Ukrainians, maybe we will meet again another rainy day on the Muni.  (We won’t, because I changed my commute.)

For the first time ever, I understand Taylor Swift.  I, too, feel compelled to fill my art (blob = art) with Starbucks lovers.  But then, the lilting voice of an old English teacher creeps into my head—girls, do not sell your souls in the marketplace.  I won’t, Mrs. O.—at least not more than I already have.

And thus, The Blob returns.  I leave you with one more bit of wisdom, from Sergei’s final text—don’t waste the pretty.

What did I miss?