Category Archives: writing

"You're A Break in The Code"

Holy shit.

Wait…you can love the messy parts of yourself?

It should be at like 4:12-4:38. Just listen. (I’m so fucking specific, but not totally committed to the idea that I did that correctly.)

Okay, discuss.

Admittedly, I’m a pretty obsessed Halsey fan and also a bit high. But I’ve listened to that 30-second statement at least six times now and I still don’t know quite what to do with it.

Clutch this brazen, tantalizing idea tightly to my chest, hold my breath, picture myself laughing too loudly and talking too much; writing blindfolded or on my skin, in the dark or in a bathroom; dancing because I have a body, singing because I like it, listening, really listening to music all day long, stopping only to make my own?

Or drop it before it burns me, this foreign thought, forgiveness, appreciation even, of a chaotic mind, a rollercoaster ride, a river of tears; give back this moment of not-wrongness that is not mine; apologize (again) for being crazy, broken, volatile, for being at all; try not exist too brightly, feel too hard, want too much?

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is writing-blind.jpg

It took me 40 years to even like most of me. I’ve never thought that I could–maybe should–love the side of me that is impulsive and inappropriate and creative and damaged and yes, passionate, about so many things. The side that cries as easily at the beauty of a sunset as at the coldness that crept into love’s voice. The part that needs to “calm down.” The unreasonable side; the “crazy” that I make jokes about because it’s easier than trying to explain what mental illness feels like. The side that feels everything, all the time.

I can love…my temper, my inability to stop saying, “fuck,” my awful dancing and worse voice, my nervous talking, oversharing, failed parenting, broken heart?

What I really want to know now is:

WHO TOLD ME I COULDN’T?

No piece of me is perfect. But I am not in pieces.

I am not a broken thing to be discarded. I refuse to only love and cherish my shiny best-self, the self that’s seemingly so easy to love. Because THAT me couldn’t exist without THIS me. I don’t get to pick one or the other, and neither do you; it’s all or none, my best and my worst, my past and my present, my heart and my mind, my laughter and my tears, my opinions and my insecurities.

All this, this mess, this disaster, this madness, this me? It’s not what I ever thought I ever should be. It just is. It’s me. The whole damn thing. Brave and fearful, weak and strong, obnoxious and honest, funny and ridiculous, hideous and beautiful.

I don’t see any reason to start using my head now; generally, that fucker is trying to take me out anyway.


Mishaps.

This is a thing that happened:  We Don’t Chew Glass

So, I haven’t been sleeping well.

Yesterday I maimed a lawn chair.

I just now SET MY FUCKING ROBE ON FIRE WHILE I WAS STILL IN IT.

How are y’all?



I posted the above on my fb page right after it happened, but I need to elaborate on this fuckery. You might need to see this picture I posted a couple days ago to get the full effect of what went down.

cool af

Me, in my usual attire. Notice the two bathrobes.

Okay. So, it was really windy, and I was trying to light a cigarette (Once again, AT LEAST IT’S NOT HEROIN. I’m a work in progress.) so, being the genius that we all know me to be, I ducked my head into my robe to block the wind.

Well. That red robe up there is flammable. I don’t know if you guys know this about bathrobes, but now you do, and you’re welcome. That motherfucker just whooshed, top to bottom, huge flames. I didn’t think I would die, because I was too busy thinking, damn, I didn’t know fire was so fast.

I even put ACTUAL EFFORT into making fire a few days ago, and couldn’t. But accidentally set myself on fire? That I can do without even trying.

So, the inside of the red robe is on literal fucking fire and, incidentally, still on my body. But I was wearing two robes, so I didn’t feel anything.

Remember when I said it was really windy? Okay. So I stood up, trying to decide whether to rip the robe off or stop, drop, and roll. While I’m pondering this, I realize that the wind (and possibly my frantic flailing about, idk) has not helped the situation. Not even a little.

I finally got the thing off, and threw it in the yard, because, hey, it’s not like fucking GRASS AND TREES EVER CATCH ON FIRE.

I tried to figure out how to stop, drop, and roll the robe itself, but for some reason that seemed like maybe not what I should do.

Once the fire stopped, obviously with no assistance from me, I took it inside. Because, much like grass and trees, houses aren’t flammable. ( How have I even survived this long?)

Anyway, I decided the safest place for it was the bathtub.

Don’t ask, because I don’t even know.

Later that night, I was feeling pretty not good and sometimes hot baths help, so that’s where I headed. Lots of times, I’ll lay a towel over my body while I’m in the bath, and it’s like extra heat. But, in this particular case, I already had a burned-ass red robe in the tub, so I didn’t even have try to find a clean towel. *Note: I just realized, the robe wasn’t clean. It was my “outside” robe. Also it had just been on fire. Whatever.

The bath was very relaxing, the robe was super heavy, way better than a towel, so I just leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, cause my legs weren’t driving me insane for the first time in days.

I guess everybody knows not to wash red clothes in hot water. If not, I’m telling you now. When I opened my eyes, that fucking bathtub looked like I had been bathing in the blood of virgins. It was like a goddamned crime scene.

My legs felt better, but from past experience I know that if I don’t fall asleep before the bath-relax magic wears off, I’ll be right back in there. So I left the blood-water in the bath, along with the robe.

I also left my soaking wet shirt, bra, and underwear in the floor, BECAUSE I FORGOT TO TAKE THEM OFF BEFORE I GOT IN THE BATHTUB.

How does a person take a 30-minute bath and not realize they are still dressed? I didn’t even notice I was wearing clothes until I tried to dry off.


Anyhow, I know I’m like the Worst Blogger in the History of Ever, but between writing stuff to hopefully get published and being sick all the time, I’ve just been lazy as fuck and used my Facebook page to share my…mishaps. Let’s call them that. That sounds like maybe shit’s not my fault. I like it.

 

 

 

 


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