When I was in college and in wallow mode, there was nothing quite like a four pack of wine coolers, some candlelight, and Tori Amos. Inching up the squeaky dorm room window and drawing on a sugary sweet clove until my head ached, I was utterly convinced that no one understood me/my life sucked/I would never be as sad as I was in that moment.

Though teenage angst is more well known, the angst of a twenty-year-old is no less powerful. It’s a strange place to be in… not quite young, not quite adult, even though you think you should be. Your life is card swipes at the dining hall, 4-6 page term papers, double-spaced, and getting into a dive bar before they start checking IDs so you can see your favorite cover band play. And you never think you’re going to reach 30. It’s. So. Far. Away.

All I have to do is listen to Little Earthquakes and I’m right back there. It’s funny how sharply and strongly I associate Tori with that era. She was my muse, my voice, my Greek chorus… only I didn’t really have the life experience for that to be true.

These days, my wallowing weapons of choice are more of the beer, chocolate, and Johnny Cash variety. And I definitely don’t think I have enough life experience for that…