So here's the thing: I'm still staring squarely at October & November, saying, "Hello, it's me...no, no this isn't Adele." Surely, I can't be the only one. Can we agree that the last two months flew by faster than the friend who woke up and ran a record-breaking marathon before you even made it to the cereal box? I'm going to propose that's why the world made a cereal called Life.

Much has happened in 72 days. I intended to tell you about it -- really I did. I intended to give a holla and a hello stranger. To say what's up and hear what's going down. To share my stories with you.

The reason I didn't is, well...not a reason at all. It's like when we forget to call our for sibling(s) for three weeks in a row, and the reason is a mixture of "oops, life did it again" and "my non-existent dog ate my non-existent homework." There you have it!

Forgive me, and we'll make up for lost time. Let's chill and eat cereal straight from the box, convincing ourselves that Life really is a complete part of breakfast (and lunch and dinner and every other meal we're eating today).

I'd love to hear how you're doing f'real, f'real. And in turn, here's a few stories I meant to tell you:

I meant to tell you about the random dude who proposed we try "Reverse Tinder," and how as such, I promptly ran 10 miles in reverse. Fast forward to the laughter.

On my walk home from work, I stumbled upon the most wondrous spectacle of San Francisco humanity. I meant to tell you that each Thursday without fail, 12 burly, gay men gather for "Knitting Club," an evening ritual that includes a JOLLY amount of gossip and needlework. You can envision that in your head, and get back to me.

I saw James Bay live for the second time. And I meant to tell you he is truly inconceivable with a guitar. It's no surprise that he was my #2 on Spotify Year of Music (which is awesome, by the by).

I meant to tell you that YA WORTH IT. I'm not kidding, Patrick.

There is this peaceful man who sits on his porch on a street in the Mission, just watching the world go by every Sunday afternoon. It makes me smile every time.

I meant to tell you...I went to Georgetown's Homecoming Weekend, and it was a whirlwind and a half with small amounts of sleep and large amounts of pizza. It was wild, wonderful, and truth be told...a little weird for me.

Amazon Prime is chief in my heart when it comes to Christmas shopping. But I meant to tell you that I sheepishly love strolling through shopping malls at this time of year, when stores are alight with holiday decorations, fake Santas, and and an endless loop of Christmas music.

I often hesitate to talk about my job with anyone/everyone for a sundry of reasons. For now, what I do know is that I'm surrounded by brilliant folks of different strokes. The data nerds, the analytical enthusiasts, the creative cats, the movie buffs, and the New Girl aficionados. It's major.

With the above notes about work aside, I meant to tell you...I'm reminded every day that impact is paramount -- the lifeblood and oxygen of what we do. There is nothing better than doing BIG things that touch people. Plain and simple.

Most every day, I sprint a few blocks at a nearly Olympian pace in order to catch a bus for my morning commute. Takeaways: Dresses are not made for running; there are no gold medals for jaywalking; no matter how long your legs, you cannot outrun the bus.

I meant to tell you that I'm unabashedly addicted to Tartine's croissants. They know what's UP with butter.

I've learned that holiday parties comprise mainly of +1 delights or disasters. Complemented by a glass of champagne and dance moves out the wazoo. Kudos to my date for killin' it.

It is a joy to have friens who are HOMIES. Homies who are a hot mess and a half...but in the best way possible. Homies who "get it" without any explanation by virtue of being on the same page of life. Homies who will sing, dance, talk, laugh...and eat cheeseburgers on a rainy day with you.

It's been hard learning that people we call dear friends can become virtually strangers. Those with whom you lived, those with whom you've shared a bed and countless spontaneous facetimes, those with whom you had endless talks only a year ago. If I may speak frankly, it is a hard thing to watch friendship unravel.

I promised the man at the Christmas tree lot a hug and a box of homemade chocolate chip cookies, if he'd be so kind as to let me take a few armfuls of extra pine branches. Because cookie + hug bribery is no joke. (My roommate claims I'm the only one crazy enough to do something like this. She's probably right.)

It's funny how when we grow up, we update friends and family with big, splashy news. And all the anecdotes du jour? Well, we seem to forget all the little things we meant to tell people.

So these are my stories, authentically unsexy and decidedly not for publication beyond the couch. To me though, there's something charming about the quotidien, nonetheless. They're simply stories of life, and they're full of life themselves.

You have these stories too. They're not all action-packed adventure tales or Oscar winners or girl-meets-boy sagas. (Though we may, or may not, have those too.) But we'll save that for another day and another box of cereal.

Life, of course, is preferable.