If you're human and alive, I can say with almost complete certainty that you've experienced a day in which you felt you could do nothing right, and you were sure everyone and everything wished you would just go away forever.

So this is also known as my life, because I deal with what scientists commonly refer to as an anxiety disorder, and what I commonly refer to as a why does the world hate me all the time disorder.

I'm not gonna lie, it's a difficult headspace to wrangle. Sometimes it gets so bad that if I walk down the street and a dog looks at me funny, I get hot eyes and ask myself, "WHY? WHY, DOG?" as he saunters away caring less that he's ruining my life.

But in the many, many years that me and my homegirl inquietude have been brainmates, I've slowly learned how to get around her when she becomes the drunk girl at the party. You know her: the one who insists she can hold her liquor, and before everyone knows it she's bumping into people and slurring words, and you're rolling your eyes up to the heavens and muttering under your breath, "I cannot BELIEVE I have to deal with this hot mess." There are various ways to ease the pain of her company: also boozing yourself, denial, distractions, drugs, exercise, medication, meditation, the ABCs of the works. Yet what I've found has helped me the most is letting her blab. That's right: I sit down and I listen to her word vomit all over my neuroses.

"Ohmygaw Dani but jyoo know errvyone hayes yoo righ? Lye reelly hayes. Yr so wyerd. So wyerd. Wyerd wyerd wyerd wyerd wyerd. Wy rjyoo so wyerd? No one lyes yoo. No iont wan wadder. Djyoo haf chips? Djyoo haf peeza? Iwan a berger. Wif fryz."

Because as the drunk girl at the party, I know what will happen if I engage her: she'll get increasingly annoying and needy until I can't take it anymore, at which point I'll be motivated into doing or saying something I'll regret. However, if I let her just talk—if I let her sit there and express all the nasty things she has to say—I know inevitably she's going to wear herself out, and mid-sentence she'll fall asleep on the couch. Does she ever wake up, startled and with a snort, trying to get at me again? Sure. But by then I'm so done with her I can simply say, "Girl, bye. Go back to sleep. My Uber's going to be here in five minutes anyway."

Haha, just kidding about that last part, I take the train. I have student loans.

The way I see it, I can either be like "Womp womp, you're right drunk girl," or . . . .

"HAIL NO, I'M NOT BELIEVING YOU."

"I'm gonna laugh."

"And snap."

"And lunge it on out."

"Because life is grand."

"And I like myself. Tah dah."

As Kait so lovingly put it: "Daniela, you're the only person I know who'd wear a cropped hot pink camisole over her t-shirt, and then pair it with silver pants and metallic shoes. But that's why I like you." To which I replied, "DAMN STRAIGHT." And drunk girl's gonna deal with it.

Uniqlo tee and socks, H&M cami, Housing Works pants, Sam Edelman brogues.

GIANT RECYCLED GLASS NECKLACE. That I bought from a bead store and did not bother restringing.

And that's about it. So remember, guys:

Even if you're typically known for burying your head in the sand and kind of look like a deformed muppet.