Do you ever sit around with your iced-chai Starbucks on the cool tiling of your condo’s communal patio and wonder… Am I Basic?
Am I the derivative of a derivative of Lauren “LC" Conrad?
Am I like most girls, even though my mother still tells me, every day, that I am a smart and special goddess?
My wife assures me that I am most certainly not Basic, but wasn’t it in our vows that she has to tell me this every day until forever?
Am I Basic if I really, truly love and profoundly relate to Nashville and wish for Connie Britton’s hair?
How dark and grown-out do my roots have to be to escape the Basic Bitch designation?
Do I only ever seem to ask questions, because I - like Carrie Bradshaw (!!!OMG!!!) - am incapable of making statements without an upward inflection?
Is all this introspection and frowning going lead to needing premature Botox, even though I made a solemn vow to not have any needles in my face until I’m on the other side of 30?
I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Probably too much.
Does all this thought therefore exempt me from being the Basic Bitch I fear I might be?
Pressing into a back bend, I wonder if I’ll look less Basic by gazing at the world upside-down.
Will the world seem less Basic with all this blood rushing to my head? Or at least combat the signs of aging?
I lay back in stern contemplation. My BFFs assure me I am most certainly. Not. Basic.
Then they try to take away my Starbucks.
It does not bode well.
I am alone.
I stare into the polluted and overcast sky, beckoning a breezy whisper of wisdom.
Dusk falls. No answers, only increased paranoia, uncertainty and anxiety. Was it the whipped cream? My nutritionist told me I was both gluten and dairy intolerant.