Write. Now.Okay, so I stopped at Target for a notebook. I know, I should’ve known better. I am that person who will stand in front of piles and piles of notebooks, staring at each and every one, picking up a select few and thumbing through them, weighing each one against the other until, forty-five minutes later, I’m finally buying a single book that’s going to be used to keep a written copy of the soundtrack to my latest novel.

This was me in Target today. I told myself that I needed a small notebook and I figured Target would have a rather nice selection. And while they did have a nice selection of notebooks — including a Moleskine-type notebook with BB-8 on the cover — I was just having a difficult time finding the right one.

And from behind me, a woman who was probably in her early 20s, holding a pack of different pens in each hand, lets out a little sigh and says, “It’s impossible, isn’t it. Finding the right notebook.”

MY MOTHERFUCKING SOULMATE RIGHT THERE IN THE DEARBORN HEIGHTS TARGET.

Someone, a random stranger in the office supplies aisle of this forgotten Target, not only understands the struggle, but is willing to talk it over with someone who she hasn’t even met. Ours eyes met and we both just smiled at one another. “I know,” I finally said to her with a casual shake of my head. “Ugh, I know. I understand the-”

“Struggle,” we said in unison.

She was gone before I had a chance to say anything else, having left one of the packages of pens behind. Another difficult choice, I’m sure.

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