Last week my friend Vanessa and I went to La Merceria, an Argentinean cafe in Toronto, walkable from my work and a hidden gem on Adelaide St W. We often meet to catch up and indulge ourselves with fancy feasts, coffees and desserts around the city – something we both thoroughly enjoy. At the corner of the cafe, we sat down beside the tall window facing the snowy street and chatted about our day, the projects we had going on, our love/hate with Instagram, etc. The usual. We sipped Nutella lattes and picked at our chicken empanadas, rambling on about “being a young adult” and how it’s been more challenging than rewarding. We are both unaware of what’s considered “normal” and laughed at our personal trials and tribulations, because laughing prevents us from having mental breakdowns in public. I suppose no one has it fully figured out. Not you, not me, not the most perfect person you can think of – nope, zilch, nadda. Vanessa and I agreed that we’d rather be lost and confused (it makes for a better TV …