(Un)politics

Today is that risky, emotional and politically tense day known in our country as "election day." Like I've said before, I am not here to delve into politics -- mainly because I have little patience in educating myself about their minutiae, and rich white men talking about my vagina makes me a little nauseous (oops). But I will let you know that I have a sticker to prove I braved the smell of my local VFW to blacken some ovals behind a big white screen. Oh no, did I just make a euphemism for the entire [political] race, there? I must be cleverer than I thought. I am America, and so can you!



Four years ago I voted for the first time. I also spent the evening of my first participating election in Grant Park with thousands of other voters, watching the giant screens set up outside the real rally -- seriously like, Oprah was so close to us -- awaiting the country's decision. It was one of the most emotionally charged things I've ever been a part of, because there were so many of us in such a large area. And when Ohio went blue? My god, I thought a hole had been torn in the sky. The feeling was just so big and so great and so hopeful. I will never forget that moment -- of thousands of people crying and holding each other; of cheering in unison over something we couldn't even grasp the magnitude yet.



The successive four years in our country's history is -- and will continue to be -- debatable. Everyone has something different to say about how Obama has affected our country, be it is positive or negative. I'm not really interested in that. What I'm interested in is the monumental shift that occurred that day and is still cascading through today. On November 4th, 2008, America chose to leave the past behind and elect its first black president. Ever. After centuries of persecution and a cultural mindset that has still not even fully healed, we chose to think differently. We chose to elect someone because of who they are as a person, and not the color of their skin.



Four years ago I was also going through my own internal shift. Remember how I told you about the time I was hibernating in my parent's home, afraid to leave for fear of sunlight, and miserably depressed? Yeah, that was then. On the day of the 2008 election, all my screws were still loose and I was staring at my insides as if they were a million-piece jigsaw puzzle that would never get put back together. I was in the middle of personal crisis and I had no idea which way was up or where left met right. I was still broken.



But as if our country were some strung-out crack addict that ODed mere days before the election, on that day it chose to be and do something different than it was used to. In the parting clouds of my own rock bottom, I also had a choice to make. Keep doing what I had been and stay miserable, or do something different. Thankfully, I chose the upward path. I chose to be and do something different.



I won't lie, it's a long road back to the top. But when faced with yourself, where would you say you are failing? Where would you admit your unhappiness? When it comes to your life, what would you say you wish were different? And how many times have you done the same thing over and over again, waiting for the magical day when it changes?



Folks, I'll let you in on a little secret: it was Einstein who told us a long time ago that the definition of insanity is exactly the formerly described. We all have choices to make in life, from the trivial to the serious. From the color of our hair to the personality of our spouse. But what we have to start realizing is that we are not the victims of our lives. Just as our country chose to do something different four years ago you, too, can choose the very same. You are in control of your life. You have the power because it is happening to no one but you. So when the road gets rocky and you begin to see where you're lacking, learn from those around you. And make your choice.

Yeah, this kind of says it all.

Posted with Blogsy

Single White Female Seeking Practical Robot

This is me enjoying my time at Firestone this afternoon, as I await the return of Karen O. from her torturous ordeal of getting a tire replaced. In truth, this is me blankly staring at the TV in the lobby, attempting to understand the Harper's Bazaar in my lap and hating every second of being a "responsible adult." I didn't take a picture of my brief cry break in the bathroom, just to save you all the embarrassment.

 

Shall I fill you in on why my trusty blue Beetle needed to be treated with such brutality, mere days after her return from the exile of the repair shop? (Remember that time I drove to Dekalb in search of epic beards, and almost died like ten times because she was stalling at nearly every intersection? Yeah well it took me a few more weeks, but she finally got fixed. I don't want to talk about how much it cost.)

 

I've had a slow leak in this one tire for probably over a year. This is just how I operate, -- like the car-dying-near-crash-shear-terror episodes of the past few months -- it usually takes me until the last possible moment to get important adult-like things done. And for the past year or so, I've been waiting until the tires gets low enough for me to feel it wiggle upon driving to fill it up again at the free air-pump gas station down the street. Oh, and I never knew what PSI to fill to so...that's what guessing is for! And yes, I can hear you cringing from here.

 

So this morning as I leave for work with exactly the correct amount of time to arrive punctually -- with little to no traffic -- I see the tire has reached Critical Attention Time. And since I bought some Fix-A-Flat months ago for the exact moment that I could put it off no longer (prevention is for sissies) I forewent the notion of being on time and began the process of DIY tire repair.

 

Too bad I left the Fix-A-Flat in my car last night.

 

Because HELL-O, it's November. And we had frost last night. And in the cold, my magical $10 elixir turned into a $120 problem when it clogged the valve, preventing me from then getting any free air in my steadfast tire's sweet hollow chambers.

 

This is why I waited so long. I know what I'm capable of destroying.

 

So now I have a brand new tire and, according to the lovely receptionist, three more that will need replacing soon. Sigh. I have little to no tolerance for things that seem very easy and simple, but are really just outside my realm of comprehension because they are SO BORING. This is why it takes me so long to buy shampoo and conditioner after I've run out and resorted to baking soda; make a chiropractic appointment even though I've been walking hunched for weeks and persist in wearing the same ridiculous heels; or buy new running shoes though I've spent hours in their vicinity over the past three years, buying dresses instead. I can't stand practicality.

 

I think this is why humans "mate for life." They need someone else to pick up their slack. I could train myself to do it, but...I don't see the fun in that. I'd rather have someone else that actually likes doing those kinds of things do them for me. Right. When do I get my robot?

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Failure Is For Winners.

Look, Here's The Thing:

I've had a lot of people coming forward to tell me what they think of this little word-vomit collect-orium lately. Fortunately they are kind words and more than I ever would have expected going into this. I had the great pleasure of spending a night with a few of them yesterday.

 

Today, in attempts to take a rare Saturday off work to put some thoughts on paper (er, keyboard) amidst continuing life dramas, I find myself stuck replaying words of encouragement from people I wasn't even expecting were paying attention. Seriously, you are all amazing.

 

But now, as I sit in the cold and dark, chain smoking on my parent's deck, all I'm thinking is; "jesus christ, don't fuck up."

 

It's like I'm balancing on the hind legs of a chair, marveling in my own poise but terrified that if I add some juggling balls to the act I'll end up toppling backwards and laughed at in history class (true side story: I was the recipient of an unfortunate classmate's very same balancing act in high school, whereupon the toppling ended up right on my foot. That bruise took a long time to heal and at a stretch could be contributed to my fear of "pushing the limits").

 

Isn't that far too often what keeps us from moving forward, though? When we hit that place where we know we've done something right, how often do we settle in the contentment instead of pushing beyond it; because the possibility of throwing it all away when the going gets good feels like throwing yourself off a cliff? Better hope Coyote's got some Acme tricks up his sleeve to catch you when you fall.

 

My favorite sarcastic letter-keeper likes to cryptically comment on what I'm doing here (yeah you, I know what you're talking about). The other day he snidely said to me: "it was ok, but not as good as the last one." My first thought: "fuck you, motherfucker! You don't know me!" And then, "oh fuck yeah I know, you're right."

 

So after those two drastically different instances and further internal expletives -- both positive, in their own ways -- I've had a hard time getting back to it. It's like one side of me is saying, "you can do better" while the other kicks back and pops a beer to watch the accolades pile up. Ta-da! That's all, folks!

 

Truth is we're all going to fuck up sometimes. And we're all going to be praised for our efforts. The trick is finding the right balance of both -- the right combination of people that are going to give you all the good along with all the bad and ugly. The right amount of internal strength matched with honest criticism. It's the only way we grow.

 

And I know by now that the only way I grow is to get outside of this bat-shit-crazy head of mine to listen in on the other bat-shit-crazies around me. The bounce-back of what you are allows you to see it from the outside in, in all of its wonder and disappointment. We're all in it together, right? Here's to the potential to fail!

 

The King Of Dogs or: What I was doing while procrastinating.

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

The Enforcer

A while ago I gave a brief intro on the concept of boundaries. Alas, it's time to elaborate on that sticky, mucky, unfortunate topic again.

 

Got your fences up? Are they armed with poisonous dart-shooting frogs? Do you have your war cry ready? Yeah? LIAR!

 

Well, here's the thing. Just like twister, boundaries are a lot easier to set up than they are to hold in position when someone's tickling your foot in a downward dog. It's quite easy to decide what pisses you off and what you really just don't like invading your personal bubble than to figure out how to get people from poking that bubble with a skewer in the first place. Not to mention how to blow it back up when it's splattered all over your face.

 

But let's pretend that you've really done some soul-searching and you know what your boundaries are. You know that the time you use in the bathroom to investigate the contents of your nose is not to be interrupted. There's a gold mine waiting to be discovered. Personally, I DO LIKE being be disturbed when writing in a coffee shop. That's what headphones are for. But you know, there's always someone strolling around who's very interested in the type of mascara I use, or the incredibly awkward proportions of my hands and just cannot take a hint that I don't care about their theories on progressive hand-enlargement surgery. All I want is to be left alone to figure out how to navigate a keyboard with these tiny paws in peace.

 

Alright, so you've got it down. And maybe you've tested the waters, letting a few of your closest chums in on the fact that when you're mining for gold, you're really just contemplating what would happen if you really did get that job promotion, and you just need this time to swim in your own head. Good for you! But then, inevitably comes the day that your roommate/husband/dog doesn't CARE that you're solving the world's problems in the bathroom, they REALLY WANT TO TALK about that awesome scene on Dexter yesterday. Or maybe the slipper they're chewing on.

 

This testing of your personal boundaries is what I've been taught in my psychoanalytic life as change back messages. Every time someone does something that toes the line of your personal boundary, what they're really trying to get you to do is change back to the jellyfish you used to be. Get in a fight with your boyfriend because you decide you want to start going to bed earlier? Change back. Silent treatment when you tell your friends you're not interested in that third margarita though you've been drinking partners for years? Change back. Howling fits after you take your Chanel sweater away from the dog after it's become his favorite slobber receptacle? Change back. You get the picture.

 

Trust me friends, this part is not fun. It becomes more like the game of twister than you ever thought possible. All those pretty little lines you've drawn in your head suddenly become a scribbled mess fit for the door of a suburban fridge. This is why it's so great to write things down, so that when everything does become a scrambled mess in your own head, you can refer to the handy map you've drawn for yourself and follow it straight back to the truth.

 

The change back is the hardest part. But stick with it. Once everyone gets their undies untwisted, trust me when I say it will be the greatest reward of your life. Suddenly, you can go to bed in peace without having to fight for it. Suddenly, you're not hung over for every meeting because the girls got rambunctious last night. Suddenly, none of your clothes have suspiciously crusty drool stains in the morning.

 

And do not forget the power of consequences. Think of it like training that slobbery dog (but don't tell anyone that -- 'cuz nobody wants to feel like they're being treated like a bad canine). That's what those dagger-shooting frogs are for: they're your security. If you give the silent treatment right back it's likely your drunk friends will start getting the message pretty quick. You have become The Enforcer.

 

Boundaries are one of those things I've had the hardest time getting used to. I have always wanted to be liked and I've always wanted to make people happy. But you know what? The happiness that I get from a peaceful latte is better than any joy I could bestow someone else for listening to their 10-minute rant on jello. I'm sure there are other jello-lovers around.

 

Posted with Blogsy

My Shit-Throwing Monkey

Look, Here's The Thing:

It's a rare moment that another person's words get so far up my craw that they're literally stuck there for hours. Mostly because I'm usually more adept with the english language than the common neanderthal, and not afraid of the 'ol back-sass. But when the occasion arrises that the individual choosing to poke the shit-throwing monkey in my brain is a customer, all I can do is watch as the excrement gets splattered all over the inside of my skull. And it's pretty gross.



Today was one of those days. I was about to leave. I had 10 minutes left on the clock. And then this chick walks in, all UP IN ARMS about a minor traffic incident she just encountered. This is what she said:



"Yeah well I almost just got hit by a car. I live in the city, and it's not even that crazy there. People know how to drive in the city. Out here in the suburbs, everybody's all pissed off at how lame their lives are that they take it out on everyone else. All they do is go get coffee."



Oh yes, THAT'S why that person almost hit you! Because they could smell your superiority and they hated you for it! It is true, we all secretly dream of weeding your species out in order to claim our rightful place in this world. Suburbanite power! You fantastic being from foreign lands; you who knows the ways of the world and is far beyond going to get coffee. You, who I must rid from the face of the planet because I fear your vast intellect. I am not worthy, thou cultured, multi-tone haired, Urban Outfitters goddess! Please leave me and my Pabst Blue Ribbon in peace!



SERIOUSLY. I about shit my pants. Seething on the drive home, all I could do was wonder at what gives some people the cajones to say something with such flippant disregard to their surroundings. Not to mention the fact that the receiving party of her bile was a bunch of hillbilly midwesterner's ourselves.



So then later as I'm thinking about how the universe works in such mysterious ways that nothing shouldn't be counted for something, my own monkey landed a big one right square in my face.



I have worked really hard to get where I am today. It's true that it's taken a lot of triumphs and equally as many falls to come to the place of understanding I have now. I've spent many hours in therapy, let go of several friendships and gained twice as many in the process; smacked my own head in revelation and beaten myself up the whole way through. I'm pretty proud of who I am and the understanding I've gained through lots of paying attention. But sometimes, I get a little self-righteous, too.



It's easy to think that once you've figured a few things out about yourself that you have the right to let everyone else know how it's done. I have always been the type to lend a word in advice, and most of the time it's taken in graciously. But I have also shoved those words right down people's throats when it's really not wanted.



Too much has happened in the last few weeks for me to ignore this small bit of wisdom staring me in the face. That for as much as I know, I don't know what it takes for someone else to understand the same of themselves. I can point out things that make me uncomfortable or share what I think with those who are open, but it is not my job nor anyone else's to tell someone how their lives should be lived. And to be honest, no matter how much you uncover there will always be another rock waiting to be unturned. And sometimes there's nasty pile of worms under there.



So I'm following that circle back to my own beginnings. I am learning again to respect the process: that everyone's is different. I can choose to be a part of someone else's or not, but it's not my prerogative to dictate how it should go. Yeah, it's fucking hard -- patience has never been my strong suit. But then that's my own lesson, and a circuit I have only just begun.



How does that saying go? Live and let live?

Posted with Blogsy

Epiphany!

Look, Here's The Thing:

If given the chance, I will spend a great amount of time expounding upon my beliefs on tribal culture and living. Read: I will talk your face into the floor. But please, if you are a philosopher or anthropology major, warn me ahead of time. Because you and I both know I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about, I just have a lady boner for Daniel Quinn.

 

I may not get the terminology or maybe the historical particulars, but I do believe that tribe life is the Way To Go. It all just makes too much sense: you find what you're good at and you do it; social security is built in because as an elder you're needed to just keep those young brats in line; fuck medical expenses because hey, that's what witch doctors are for. You have a war every hundred years or so with the neighbors just to prove that I AM NOT TO BE MESSED WITH, and then you go on with your life. You give to the tribe so the tribe will give to you. It's practical.

 

But the sticking point here (and also the reason a lot of my friends think I'm BS crazy) is not that I believe we should go back to wearing leaves over our junk, but that tribal living can very much be a practical thing.

 

You find what you're good at. You do it to contribute to the whole so that the whole keeps you safe. You travel sometimes, you trade with other tribes sometimes. When you're on their turf, you abide by their rules. They know that you don't mess with tribe BossyPants. You eat and you breathe. You live and you die. And you live on through the next generation, who keeps the memory of you in its tradition.

 

THIS COULD SO TOTALLY BE A PRACTICAL THING. But I'm not going to get into all of that -- why I think we could absolutely live in a big world made up of little parts. Why I think no two groups should ever have to live in the same way. Why big government has totally fucked us over in this regard. Why the five or so corporations that own us have really, really screwed us over. Not that I'm bitter or anything.

 

That's not the point here. The point is the Eureka! moment I had today. Whilst feverishly avoiding being late to work in the Death Mobile this morning, I stopped at one of the many passive-aggressive stop signs en route and it came to me. Like the two roads crossing before me, the tribe is neither the structure nor the people. It's the intersection of them both.

 

What do I mean? I mean that it's been a rough week. I mean that I've had to draw on every resource I have at my disposal just to stay sane, or at least to keep me away from a case of wine. I've been on the phone more times than probably the last few years combined. I've had more screaming-crying-kicking-laughing-sobbing conversations than any of my friends should ever be proud to have endured. I've written, I've knitted, I've taken baths. I've taken a huge loan out of my tribal social security.

 

But here's the amazing part. The reason I have so many amazing people in my life and the balls to ask them to be around me in times of crisis is because I've worked for it. I've put my time in. I've used my gift with words as my payment to the tribe, or all the wonderful people I am blessed to call a part of my life. I love them and they love me, because no one -- NO ONE -- is an island. I give to the tribe and the tribe gives back. It's emotional social security.

 

Oh dear god, I'm just making allegory for The Hangover, aren't I? Like, wanna be part of my Wolf Pack?




P.S...As an added bonus, please go listen to this song. Because it keeps showing up on my Pandora and simultaneously makes me want to dance in the rain singing and jump off a building. Just do it.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Why I Drink, Swear and Eat Cake

Look, Here's The Thing:



I have a real problem with taking myself too seriously. Call it perfectionism, call it first born syndrome, call it Daddy issues: it all amounts to beat-to-shit fingernails. You could even whip out the newspaper and blame my astrology -- damn you, anal Virgo of criticism!



This is a trait that suits perfectly an industry where knowledge is power and the more you know, the crazier you are. Seriously, I know exactly what a trans fat molecule looks like and why it sucks for your cells; why the cholesterol myth is both fact and bullshit; the difference between gluten free, yeast free and wheat free -- and a thousand other things that could make a dictionary feel overwhelmed.



So wait, hold on, let me connect these two elements for you (not because you're stupid and can't understand what I'm getting at, but like I said, IT NEEDS TO PERFECTLY MAKE SENSE):

1) I have a tendency to obsess over what I'm doing and how I'm doing it; if it is right and how it could be better. This extends to my work habits, health habits, art habits, and people-associating habits. Sometimes known as "control issues" (pshaww).

2) I am surrounded by information at all times, from those wanting more of it from me to those trying to shove it down my throat (we in the industry call those reps). And there is NEVER too much information. There is NEVER a point when we say "wait, I know enough, thanks, I think I'm pretty healthy for now. I don't need to know how to prevent asthma in my goldfish. We both eat broccoli."

3) As a product of these two phenomena, it is very easy for me to turn this constant input of information against myself, to use it as a google maps for my life instead of, say, a handy atlas. And we all remember being screwed by google maps.



I began working in the alternative health world when I actually really did need help -- both physically and emotionally. But after reprograming myself to understand that peanut butter is not, in fact, a meal -- and I started feeling better -- I was able to take a step back and look at what out of this new well of information I actually needed and what was just overflow.



I see so many people who are new to taking care of themselves. I see so many of these people's crazy eyes spiral when they discover that there is a huge vat of information stored up within the history of human health and science to be consumed. I see all of these people freak out; I see all of these people plead for guidance and structure and more knowledge; I see the anxiety in every one of them when they realize there's no way they can ferment their own sauerkraut while whipping up a batch of kombucha to send in BPA-free containers with their kindergarteners to the first day of class and oh-my-god-they're-going-to-get-cancer-at-age-5. And I see them run to Wendy's when it gets too hard.



I'm not just talking about health here. I'm talking about all the things we spin our hamster wheels doing, that seem so very important to our survival but to be honest just shorten it. All I know from anything I've ever learned about myself and this world is that there's no way you're ever going to do it all right all the time. There's no way you're always going to eat organic, there's no way you're always going to be able to work full time and make 5-course allergen-free meals for your family and go to therapy and catch up on a hobby and read a book and garden all at the same time -- probably at that point you're just going to take a nap. You're never going to get to all your appointments on time when you're child is puking. All we can do is know what we know, and act on it in the best way we can. I'll never be someone that doesn't eat sugar, because it's so tasty and thinking about the sugar content in half a chocolate chip makes me nauseous. I'll never write, paint, work and maintain my relationships every single day. I'll never be perfect, because I have way better things to think about. Like clothes.



And that's why I drink, because there's nothing like a good glass of Gnarly Head after a long day. That's why I swear, because nothing is worth talking about if taken too seriously. And that's why I eat cake, because fur realz, what kind of sick world doesn't have cake?

Posted with Blogsy

On My Aversion To Teenage Girls

Look, Here's The Thing:




I was once a Teenage Girl. I was once obnoxious, self-entitled and catty. I once traveled in packs, spoke in "like" and was Really Fucking Annoying. I know what you're thinking: "how can someone so articulate, witty and self-aware once have been one of those girls I see at Starbucks wearing shorts more akin to thong underwear? Surely not."



I assure you, I was once one of those girls. Minus the shorts, maybe -- I never had the confidence to bare my cellulite in such a manner. Maybe because unlike my womanhood, my cellulite came in at twelve.



I'm reminded of how much I can't stand teenage girls every time I decide it would be really nice to sit at Starbucks for a while, attend to my addiction (caffeine) and get some good, solid writing done. Because every time I journey over to said watering hole, there is always a gaggle of the aforementioned young Medusas hellbent on prohibiting me from doing anything that even smells like productivity.



The grating voices. The shrill yelling. The language that relies far too heavily on adverbs as actual conversation fodder to be near trackable. The spectacle that not even the soothing voice of Sam Beam can drown away.



Like most good grudges, I can come to terms with the fact that my distaste for this strange mutation of human comes from an aversion to my own time spent as One Of Them. Because looking back on the times before I came to be who I am now is just really, really difficult.



When I was a Teenage Girl, I had the spine of a jellyfish. My world was ruled by the whims of my friends, who had the power to create a day's happiness or crush it with bracelet-laced fists. The Mother and I were constantly at fisticuffs over my desire to play by their rules -- the only one of which mandated I did whatever they said. I was completely, one-hundred-percent codependent. I didn't tell anyone how I really felt because I knew my role: I was the counselor, I was the shoulder to lean on, I was the one that always said yes because we're-never-talking-again-if-you-don't-come-to-my-graduation-party-I-don't-care-if-you're-puking-you-brains-out. And it was totally, like, my fault.



When I began to break away from the relationships that I had come to view as more harmful than productive, something curious happened. First, I felt really powerful. I felt in control of who I chose to be and what I chose to do. Second, I felt really lonely.



Because I had been living within the lives of others. I had built my identity around this construct (the anchor I found, though, was the art I was making; it was then that I realized how I had been using it as a lifeline to preserve that which I was hiding). But out of that loneliness came truth. The loneliness gave me the space to move toward the things that I really wanted, not what was being dictated. The loneliness became my Safe Place to come back to, to find strength in, to restructure which direction I was headed in and find the faith I lacked in myself to choose my own path.



So whenever I feel the haughty glare of some sixteen year-old who's just gotten her license so OF COURSE she is far superior to I, in my thrifted granny skirt and ancient telephonic communication device (my phone's a piece of shit) and I feel the repulsion fill the back of my throat, I know what that is. That's me, staring at myself through the lens of time and just hating where I came from. That's me, looking at a girl who didn't know "no" from a chip in her nail polish. That's me, wearing neon hair clips and an armful of bracelets and what are you doing with your hair, child; hating her mother because she actually did understand how to say no. That's me, without a clue of who I wanted to be.



I'm glad I'm starting to see her now.

Teenage Mosifer and Nichola, circa 2007. Friendship status: intact

Posted with Blogsy

Crossing Bridges or; "I Just Have A Lot Of Feelings"

Look, here's the thing:



Remember that chick from Mean Girls – you know the one – who speaks at the girls’ workshop of sunshine and rainbows, and when Damien yells “she doesn’t even go here!” tearily responds, “I just have a lot of feelings”? That one who seemed so endearingly pathetic, who we all laughed at because she was just kind of awkwardly sad? The one that my friends and I have been mocking for years, because HELLO THAT LINE IS PURE GOLD?

Well, here’s a “sad” truth: we are all that girl.



Or boy, depending on your chromosomal disposition. But the difference between us and that freak is that we’ve gotten really good at hiding it -- and not least of all from ourselves. We spend so much time fixating on the problems of others -- the friends', the boyfriends', the tv's -- that it becomes quite easy to miss what is going on at a much closer distance; within our own selves.



So what happens when we stop fixating outward and listen to what our feelings are trying to say? What happens when we slow down, ignore the phone, turn off the tv, just sit?



It hurts like a bitch, that's what.



It hurts so bad it feels like you'll give yourself a hernia crying it all out or worse; all that chipotle you had for lunch will be staring at you from the inside of a toilet before it's over. Maybe the anger is so big you're afraid those around you will literally notice the hulk-like pallor to your skin and henceforth stop returning your calls. Or the loneliness might actually swallow you up -- you surely won't be missed! But most of all, the fear of those tiny maggots of truth wriggling to the surface is more that once they get there, they'll never go away.



But, here's a happier truth: feelings are bridges.



Just like you need to take the first step to get to the other side, feelings need to be felt to reach their end. And when you get to the end? You move on to the next thing. It's done, it's over, OH THANK GOD. Until you feel it again. But look, the good news is that the more you start allowing yourself to Get To The End of your feelings, the more you'll begin to understand What They're Really About. Go get some more tacos, since you flushed those hours ago. Tell yourself "I love you, self. Even if you have way too many feelings."



And then just keep swimming.

Posted with Blogsy