So it’s been a month.
I’ld like to blame that on being busy, finals, a new job, moving, break ups, and all the other bullshit that comes with being alive; but really it’s nothing.
I’ve been nothing.
Someone left a comment on my work telling me I need to question my writing.
And oh my fucking god was she right.
I wasn’t questioning because I wasn’t writing and I wasn’t writing because I was nothing.
I was realizing the other day while reading, Nicole Life Less Bullshit, that I am excited by almost nothing.
Seriously. Stab my cat in the face or hand me a 2 mil in cash after taxes and the reactions will pretty much be the same.
I do this because I’m totally mentally ill.
I can not handle any emotions so I block them in real life. Which was once upon a time ok because I would write in journals. But now I’ve dipped my toe into blogging and I desperately want to be fearless enough to live out loud.
Unfortunately the past month I’ve choked with fear.
I was so afraid to write because I had been writing so safely, but I had all these feelings inside but I couldn’t post them on the internet because I just started a new job and I want people to not read my blog and think I’m nuts.
Despite the fact I’m totally nuts.
Which isn’t even fair to get their hopes up that I’m not.
And I stopped writing honestly because it’s not cool to talk about how in love you are with someone who unknowingly breaks your heart everyday even though he couldn’t even possibly know that because you never tell him anything.
And you’re afraid to write because god forbid his family see this blog.
God forbid my own fucking family see this blog.
Seriously, how disappointing would it be to find your daughter’s drugged, drunk, mentally ill and sexed up chronicles on the internet?
Plus then the fact I’m nuts would be something in writing.
Because today I’m in a straight panic that if I eat dinner I’m never going to fit into my pants tomorrow, but then tomorrow I’ll be drinking margarita’s care free and centered post yoga.
That kind of emotional 180 makes no fucking sense and I make no sense.
So why the FUCK am I writing this down?
It’s in part because I just picked up Jenny Lawson’s “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened”, it’s in part because I need to not feel repressed any more, it’s in part because I just bought my first Typewriter (the same one Jack Kerouac had my significant other tells me), it’s in part because a coworker admitting to creeping my social media and reading my blog telling me she could totally relate (and coming from a fellow writer that meant a lot) and partially because I just started a new job where I don’t know many people and I could be anyone I really fucking want to be me.
I’m not even editing this post because today I don’t give one fuck about grammar.
Talk to me tomorrow and I’ll probably lecture you on the absolute necessity of the oxfordian comma.