Tomorrow comes regardless of our desire for a new day. Calendars appear stationary but they are always plotting and scheming, collecting tiny scratch marks and new pictures to entice us into revealing the next month. It’s such a dirty trick, using our love of cute puppies and cats and sexy shirtless firemen to reveal a sudden (but not really sudden) 27-31 day shift in time. A full moon cycle has passed, and the sun has been staying out either progressively longer or progressively shorter depending on the season, and 6 new songs have hit the top of the Top 40 countdown with Ryan Seacrest, and somehow you’ve managed to stay absolutely the same, in blubbery body to fractured mind all the way down to the microscopic pieces your heart shattered into because of course you are a heart-broken fool. You’re an American raised on Nicholas Sparks and John Green novels, reruns of How I met your Mother and The Titanic, and pop song after pop song making love into the only thing even worth living for, so OF COURSE you are a heartbroken idiot! This is in your DNA at this point, the only logical conclusion to this crash course called “the early to mid twenties”.