Maria Sestito

The first career day I ever spoke at was back in North Carolina at an elementary school. I was still in my early twenties and unsure that I was the best person for the task, but I loved being around kids and would probably say yes to most things my boss asked of me.

I accidentally Marie Kondo’d my life.

I couldn’t get my helmet off.

I’ve been craving water. Salty water.

I’m running up a tall staircase. I’m almost there when my foot slips on the edge of a step. My face slams against the stairs, my chin hitting one, two, three steps or more. Bang. Bang. Bang. I reach out my arms, grasping for the top.

I’m thinking about moving to Florida. More specifically, I’m thinking about buying a house in Florida. FLORIDA.

My boyfriend’s dream is to own a house by the lake. Not just any lake – one near his favorite uncle’s house up in Clearlake.

A tarot-card reader once told me that I was “disconnected” from my body.

I’m not good at being a girl. I don’t understand how to do it: the make-up, the clothes, or the hair-brushing, drying and styling. No matter how hard I try, there’s something in me that seems inept in this area.

I don’t really remember much from my childhood, but I do remember the first 150 creatures featured in Pokémon. I grew up in a Pokémon sweet spot, right when it was really taking off, so it didn’t seem weird to be obsessed with watching and collecting these “Pocket Monsters.” There was a Poké…

My friends and I, we feel we did everything right. We did well in high school, went to college – took out loans to pay for it – and then, upon graduating, had GPAs to brag about. Some of us, including me, even worked our asses off while in school to help pay for it and our ramen noodles.

When I bought my car four years ago, I planned on having it forever. I’d run that baby into the ground – travelling across the country, going on reporting trips, road trips and shopping excursions. It’s been everywhere with me and, in many ways, has served as a sort of home away from home. M…

I’ve proclaimed a decent number of things within the margins of this column and, yet, here I go again.

Student insurance is saving my life. The few thousands it costs every semester have equipped me with free prescriptions, low copays, short and long-term therapy options, a dietician, potential allergist and a colonoscopy that I was told should be 100 percent covered.

One of my favorite books as a little girl was Golden Sound Story’s version of “The Princess and the Pea.” The image on the front of the 1991 storybook was of a yellow-haired princess wearing a pink, billowing dress and holding a pillow atop of which was a green pea.

My eyes were closed and I was focused on breathing. I tried to keep it steady, consistent enough that I could eventually stop focusing and just be.

People sure do love to hate on some of the things I love – things that, yes, might be bad for me, but are also harmless in comparison to vices other people might have. One of the biggest targets of their trivial criticisms: soda.

Since living in our studio, Cosmo – my cat – has had an increased appetite. The amount I’ve had to spend on cat food has doubled and most of that extra cost is wasted when he vomits on my bed. (My laundry detergent bill has also increased.) I know this is concerning, so I’ve changed his food…

My first semester at Berkeley didn’t turn out exactly as I had hoped. At best, it was up and down. At worst, I felt like I didn’t belong at the school or in journalism at all.

Do we ever stop growing up?

A guy recently told me that he wanted to make it into my column. I told him that my next few subjects were already lined up, so he would have to stick around for a few weeks. He found a loophole: he ghosted me.

I’ve never been much of a sports fan, but when my team made it to the Super Bowl, I suddenly became a Phanatic – a Philly Phanatic. (Yes, that’s the baseball team mascot, not the football team. I do know that much, but it works.)

Nothing reminds you of the importance of self-care like getting sick twice in less than 30 days.

Something strange and amazing happened to me one night last week: I was too happy to sleep.

It’s been a rough year.

When it comes to writing my column, there aren’t many lines I won’t cross. But, I’ve discovered, just because I’m willing to share details of my personal life, doesn’t mean that my partners, friends and family are.

This weekend I’m unplugging.

I’m officially the only “Beginner Adult” ballerina at The Arts Academy in Napa.

When the “Me too” movement revived last month it was amidst a whirlwind of wildfires scorching areas of Northern California. I saw my friends on Facebook posting away, joining others who have been sexually harassed or assaulted with either a simple #MeToo or by describing their own experience.

“Are you OK?”

I recently started standing in what I refer to as “the food line.”

There’s something to the term “retail therapy.”

The last few weeks have finally felt like summer in the Bay Area – at least to me.

Cosmo needed a friend. It didn’t even need to be a friend, actually, just something to keep him company while I was working. So, I did a thing. I bought a fish.

While I stuffed my face with bacon cheesecake, bacon upside down cake and what could have been a bacon birthday cake, pounds and pounds of food were going bad around me.

I recently had a night of revivals – Jamestown Revival and The Revivalists performing at Robert Mondavi Winery. Both bands were good, but the special thing about this night was that it was the first of many events I’ll be going to sans a boyfriend.

I once had a Spider-Man T-shirt that read: “I met my boyfriend on the web.” I don’t have that T-shirt any more, but I still have a crush on Spidey.

I gave it my all, but being blonde isn’t for me.

Kathy Griffin can be mean. She’s crass, says gross and inappropriate things and makes fun of people.

The first night of BottleRock, I found myself being taken by the hand and led to the front of the night’s biggest concert by a 17-year-old girl.