What I’m Best At: Your, You’re, Yore? Well.

 

Written by Mia Lardiere

I am the best at being the worst.

I forgot my father’s birthday because it wasn’t on Facebook.

I neglectfully burn popcorn while pinning a twenty-four ingredient dinner recipe to my Pinterest board, and cringe at the sugar content in your PSL while dousing my dark roast in carcinogens from yellow packets.

Black leggings are basic until they happen to me, in which case they are classic, and what do you mean, “The magazines at my salon are not yours to keep?”

The only memory I hold dear from past relationships is learning the correct lyrics to the Scorpions’ “Rock You Like a Hurricane,” although I still believe it sounds like, “Raunchy Like a Hurricane”.

Do you believe in love at first sight, or do I have lipstick on my teeth again?

There will always be space reserved on the yoga mat for my iPhone as we meditate mindfully in final savasana because despite any photo scandals, we honor the light that exists in each other. (Besides — the only thing I have to hide is a roll of selfies in headgear snapped accidentally while checking emails in bed.)

I mastered “your,” “you’re” AND “yore,”  and I am “well,” not “good.”

…But really, am I either?