Morning Magic: Rituals, and One Pesky Magpie
Most mornings start the same: the soft glow of desert sunlight ekes its way through my blackout curtains, leaving golden streaks along a collection of vintage show posters hanging on my wall. Seriously, if there’s anything Vegas has taught me, it’s that there’s no better cure for morning lethargy than a reminder of Sinatra’s legacy hovering above your bed.
While the rest of my neighborhood might already be humming with golf carts on their way to Starbucks, I move at a slower, semi-caffeinated pace. First on the agenda is a ritual that has nothing to do with my deadlines or relationship musings. Instead, it’s feeding Hank, the magpie that's decided my backyard is his private kingdom. Hank’s presence was initially a mystery—why does a bird so sassy and entitled decide to visit me, of all people, at exactly 7:32 a.m., every day? After two weeks of early squawking, I gave in and started keeping unsalted peanuts on hand. Now Hank and I have what I’d call a toxic friendship—he gets attention and treats, and I get minimal appreciation. Love comes in all forms, I guess.
Desert Dweller by Day, Vegas Dreamer by Night
After Hank’s breakfast theatrics, it’s time for mine. Here is where I’ll betray the effortless glam Vegas might suggest: my breakfast is aggressively boring—a smoothie packed with kale and some overpriced protein powder that promises eternal youth, which I chase with about two cups of coffee. The contrast of health and caffeine chaos feels necessary, like balancing two sides of my personality: creative and chronically over-committed. Somewhere between slurping smoothie mush and checking my notifications, my writing persona kicks in.
Writing about dating and relationships means constantly watching for connections and threads in real life. Every interaction, every rendezvous, every time I overhear someone at a café breaking up over Zoom… it’s all research. My life is a testament to the fact that advice doesn’t come from a high horse—it comes from awkward experiences, bad decisions, and sometimes, a magician ghosting you after what you thought was a charming third date.
Notes, Nostalgia, and a Too-Close Encounter With Glitter
By midday, I often venture out of the house (when my deadline doesn’t chain me to the desk like a writer straight out of Misery). My go-to spot when I need inspiration? The Arts District downtown. It’s where you’ll find me scribbling notes on mismatched paper while nursing an iced latte from a café so hip it might as well be wearing suspenders ironically. There’s something grounding about the mix of tourists discovering artisan candles right next to locals debating poker tales over beers earlier than socially acceptable.
Case in point: A couple of weeks ago, I ran into a bride-to-be who was sobbing outside a bridal boutique, devastated that her wedding dress sparkled too much. “I look like a contestant on Dancing with the Stars instead of a bride!” she said. My advice? Life will throw the metaphorical glitter at you sometimes, you just have to own it. (She wasn’t impressed, but I hope she learned to embrace her sequined destiny anyway.)
Afternoon Slumps and Oscar-Worthy Flashbacks
Let’s fast-forward past the sleepy, mid-afternoon hours. This is the time of day when my writing takes a detour. Often, that detour lands me rethinking past relationships, imagining the alternate universes they inhabit in hindsight. For example, the one time my eventually-ex-boyfriend insisted he had no business learning how to use chopsticks because “it’s too much commitment” still haunts me as both a red flag and an oddly specific metaphor for his reluctance to commit in general.
But that’s the beauty of working in an industry I love. I don’t shy away from letting my own stories spill into my writing—embarrassing details and all. Because if I’ve learned anything from Vegas (and life in general), it’s that people identify with flaws. It’s why we root for the heist team in Ocean’s Eleven, even when they’re crooks. Relatability starts where polished perfection ends.
It’s All About the Spark (and Taquitos)
By evening, I shift gears. When not working on a story or reflecting on love lives (mine and others’), you’ll typically catch me in my kitchen. It’s there I attempt to recreate my grandmother’s recipes while realizing I’ve made nowhere near enough progress in the realm of adulting to master them. Tonight, it’s taquitos—simple enough yet prone to reminding me I have no business pretending to be a Food Network competitor.
But cooking is grounding, even if you can’t make it Instagram-perfect. It’s proof of care, intention, patience—a metaphor that all great relationships mirror, really. Let me tell you, there’s no better life hack for considering emotional nourishment than while attempting to sauté your way out of kitchen fires.
Final Curtain Call
By late evening, I’m typically back on my patio with Hank (yes, he returns). Despite his drama, he’s a decent conversationalist in the absence of late-night text threads. It’s also around this time I dive into a final reflection of my day: the connections I made, the stories I witnessed, and how it all informs not just my writing, but my relationships with others and myself. In creating spaces for my readers to see themselves, I’m constantly working on keeping my own connections growing in an authentic way—not unlike coaxing another peanut toward Hank.
So, is a day in my life as wildly entertaining as a weekend on the Strip? Maybe not. But it’s full of charm, humor, and the smallest lessons that ground the sparkle of Vegas in a way that feels, dare I say, real. And if nothing else, it leaves me with one certainty to pass along: Embrace the unpredictable, the messy, and yes, even the metaphorical magpies that squawk at your window—because life’s connections are often built on the quirks of the unexpected.
