It may not be to the person going through a deep metaphysical struggle for their identity and it probably isn’t for the dipshit, clueless girl who is #blessed.

This might be for the people in between.

I stopped writing many years ago. I just simply put down my pen. I threw my journals away. I abandoned my tortured writers soul. I never shared much of my writing anyway. No one would miss it. I used to write from this very earthy part of the wrinkles in my brain…most likely more under developed than I can recall.

I used to dig and dig for the words that would make everything look effortless… like poetry. And I, in fact, did write some published poetry. Aka, someone put my stuff on a blog. But those were just blips on how my brain processed my experiences. Lucky, orgasmic bursts of things that were so intense, only poetry could capture them. Locked in those words forever, I’ve kept a few of them like little china dolls.

My most fond writing is journal style. My pen to your ears…sometimes it’s a whisper and sometimes it’s a sucker punch but it’s not dressed in a macrame dream catcher. But just maybe, we can all get some understanding of our experiences through my brash words. And, experiences, I’ll tell you…I’ve had some. I’m going to be leading the court of old people in senior living. Please don’t let your grandchildren around me…because I will tell them the truth about life, loss and love.

These are my stories, from my life. Some of them are pretty fucking funny, others…not so much. But again, I don’t know who I’m writing this for… maybe I’m imagining you all wrong. Maybe you need a laugh because you’re searching or you’re just fucking tired and want to sit down for a minute. Or maybe you need to sympathize with a similar heartbreak like the ones in these essays… so you don’t feel so alone. Maybe you know me. Maybe you wish you didn’t. 

Above all, I’m happy you are here. And by you, I mean ME.