Writing what I want to write, secrets, and owning it.

You write what you want to write. That’s it. Fuck the rest. This is your home, your space. You want to weep about the things that have been done, however trivial they may be in a world lacking world peace and struck with poverty, fuck it. You write what you want to write.

That’s it.

Because everyone is fighting their own battles, because everyone hurts, everyone feels pain, and to measure it is bullshit. Fuck a battle where I weigh my pain against yours and you weigh yours against mine, because why? Why? What’s the point in saying to a person who is hurting that their pain doesn’t weigh enough, no matter the genesis of that pain? That’s bullshit.

I don’t want to be a sad bitch on the internet, I don’t want to come here and cry everyday about the fucked up shit in my life, but at the end of the day this space is mine and if I want to cry over the wrongs done to me, that maybe don’t have to do with pandemics or poverty, then I will. Because this space is mine.

So let me tell you a secret.

I’m sensitive. Beyond words. I’ve got this tough bitch, honey badger, fuck shit up demeanor, but fuck that. I’m a sensitive bitch. You hurt, I hurt. That’s how I work. He hurts, I hurt, even when I shouldn’t. I hear a song and it takes me. I can’t stop it. It drags me down, to those depths – and I think you know them – those dark places where sadness is comfort and broken is built.

I cry over lonely puppies and Sarah McLachlan and I’m done saying I’m sorry for that shit. This is the person I am. I take a lot in, and I do with it what I can. I try to fix what I can, try to heal what I can, try to rectify what I can and the rest, the parts that I can’t fix, well. They fucking eat me, those parts.

Because – and here’s secret number two – I want to save the world.

I want to fix your shit. I’m a fixer. It’s what I do. Give me your shit, and I’ll give you a solution, because I want to see you smile. I want to make you laugh. I want to make your ribs hurt you laugh so fucking hard and so I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever pain you have to give and I will wrap it up and throw it out into the universe because I fucking love you.

I shouldn’t have to apologize for giving a shit, and so I won’t.

Because I do. I give a shit. I care. I care so much I’ll break myself for it, because me be damned – fuck me.

And if writing is my catharsis, then so fucking be it. Walk away if you don’t want to read it, or don’t if you do.

And so here it is:

I laugh too loud and I swear a lot.

I don’t eat sea creatures – not even crabs or lobsters or shrimp.

I’m really fucking funny sometimes. And sometimes I’m really fucking sad.

I hear a song and sometimes it dictates my mood. That’s it. That’s just the way it is.

Most days I just want to run. For as many miles and as many hours as my legs and lungs can handle.

I drink craft beers and scotch, and, if I’m in Vegas, Blueberry Stolis.

Nachos are my favorite food, green my favorite color, spring my favorite season and Halloween my favorite holiday.

I’m almost always wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

I don’t wear lipstick and I’d almost always rather be barefoot.

I don’t have a filter and sometimes I say things I shouldn’t.

I’m not fucking perfect, and I shouldn’t have to be.