Becoming One With Life

I did you a favor and you flipped it on me you ungrateful fuck.

I’m not going to change. What I write here is what I feel now. If you think that’s stupid or effeminate or somehow inferior to how you express yourself, kindly go fuck yourself.

Now to everyone else:

I urge you, be yourself. Do you. No one else in this world, whether past, present, or future will ever be able to do you no matter how hard he or she tries.

I’m too angry to write coherently or eloquently so let me end this before it comes a tirade.

“If you don’t claim your humanity you will become a statistic.”

Fin

I’m reading a book that she gave me and it makes me sad. It makes me think of her. And when I think of miss her. And when I miss her I’m sad.

(I’ve been falling for a long time. I’ve never known what’s below me and I still don’t. But it’s dark out now and I can’t see my surroundings. I think she’s falling with me. The last time it was bright enough I could see her next to me. But it’s too dark and I can’t see her anymore.

No, that is completely inadequate. I want to erase that, it is so inadequate. If only I could paint that picture. Words don’t do the imagery in my head justice.)

I’m not done the book yet. I’ll try and finish. But I feel myself disagreeing with the way the characters live their lives. With the message of the book. Perhaps I’m misreading it.

Then again, perhaps my Big Lebowski view on life is fundamentally opposed to it:

Life is complicated. Don’t worry about it. Just do what makes you happy. Go fuckin’ bowling.

The Dude abides.

I’m trying to think of something else to say about these two decades before it’s no longer May 26th. But I can’t think of anything.

So I’ll leave you with this:

Thank you if you’ve shared any part of it with me.

L’chaim.

whenthesunrose:

This really just needs to end.

What exactly?

I don’t want to leave.

Meg asked me if I censored myself because I knew she was reading. I told her that I censor myself because I know I’m reading. I know that someday in the future I’ll look back and read everything I wrote. I don’t want to embarass myself.

That’s the Little Hater talking.

We all have a Little Hater. It’s the voice inside our head that tells us we’re not good enough. The voice that says nobody cares about us or what we think. The voice that conintually cuts us down. It’s our job to not listen to the Little Hater.

I’m going to try and ignore the Little Hater and just write. Uncensored. Hopefullly I can entertain, promote discussion, and just make people think, but if not, oh well. I have to write for me. Not the Little Hater. Not anyone else. Just me.

“Start every day by sneaking up on the Little Hater while he’s still asleep and knocking him out.” - Jay Smooth