Hey, I’m Aslyn. I overshare stories and photos from my life, don’t drink enough water, and can’t let go of pop-punk. I got tired of seeing the same all white decor, perfect throw blanket, Pinterest snack lifestyle blogs. So I started my own. I share the good and the really shitty, because both are important. Writing is my way of sorting through life, relating to people, and trying my hardest to make sure people know they’re not alone.
I never graduated art school, got married before I could drink (legally), and hate interacting with the general public.
Also, my husband and I run a successful barber shop, I homeschool my two kids, and have shot photographs professionally for a decade.
Few places were as well known as the house he was living at, at the time. It became pretty apparent to me why, from the moment I set foot inside. Instead of the normal feeling of carpet or hardwood in the living room, the floor was a sea of old fast food bags that crumpled beneath my feet wafting up the smell of old grease as I made my way over to the couch that looked like it had definitely been puked on before. Chris made his way to the kitchen to grab food for us. In the dining room was a half assembled motorcycle, with skids of tire rubber marking up the floor around it and pools of oil scattered across the hardwood. A large tank with a mesh lid and a light sat in the corner of the archway between the two rooms.