Alright. Lets get a few things out of the way.
I am 29. Immensely single after getting out of a long-term relationship more than a year ago. I am awkward in an endearing way, but not in that adorably marketable quirky kind of way. I have anxiety. Sometimes I’m a total rock star, other times I’m in the fetal position beside my bed. I am also painfully nice. It’s a deadly combination of Canadian maple sweetness, mixed with southern peach charm, and an overwhelming pour of straight empathy. So basically, I am setting the background for you to understand that I am already approaching the dating scene at some glaring deficiencies.
After my 8 year stint on the inside (yes I am referring to my past relationship, and no I am not being hyperbolic) I emerged into the dating scene royally fucked. The dating game has changed. Men have changed (Did fuckboys exist before? Do they just have more access now? Why do they only speak in emojis?).
So alas, we get to the name of my blog. Pickled. Because of the two very conflicting factors listed in the equation above, I find myself in peculiar situations all the time. I get myself into a pickle. Pickled. Situations where in the midst of them I look around to make sure that this is in fact reality, and I am not being recorded for a TV show. Some pickles are 100% my own damn fault, other pickle’s are, I’m assuming, some sort of karmic retribution. Once I am given the beauty of the perfect amount of both time and distance, I look back on these stories and laugh. And laughter is the best medicine. Besides Percocet. So I hope you enjoy being pickled with me.