Hi.

Antique Pink Floral Women's Jacket

Hi. I had a rush of "I want to write", and hurriedly got myself together to do so, only to find myself in front of a computer screen, terrified. I've written for years about the quirkiness inside my own brain. I've written from my oftentimes sociopathic "I don't give a fuck about anything" stream of consciousness. Writing has given me freedom. I can write without fear of consequence, because I write about nothing of consequence, nothing I really believe in. That way, I can dance around life without true commitment, and I'm terrified of commitment.

"Recycle Your Mom" is about redeeming what's been lost or thrown away. I stopped writing. I stopped dreaming or laughing or believing. And I've been too scared to write that down. I only know how to write what I'm thinking. And most of my thoughts over the past couple years have been dark, angry, and full of hate. I want the world to see one side of me, the happy, recycling-loving neurotic, and hide the other side.

So, in honor of holding things together that are hard to look at, I will try to write what is true from the dark angry hateful place. My store exists. I occasionally sell things. I work very little, and have little energy. I wake up most days and spend a couple hours willing myself to go on, meditating, visualizing, talking to myself to get the fuck out of bed and face the world, or face my messy house, cluttered with unpaid bills, Christmas decorations I'm too lazy to deal with, and a kitchen I clean once a week. I have strained every relationship in my life to the max, borrowed money to pay rent, taken a lot of people's time to cry on the phone without purpose or desire to change, and blamed everyone else for my problems. I have no kids, no pets, and very little responsibility, and a crock-pot made my dinner tonight.

I've said little. I'm a mess.

Be honest with all you've got.