The real number one killer of human life is:
Stupidity.
Find yourself, again.
In this new year.
Whoever you may be,
search for your authenticity everyday.
Grow knowledge in your passions,
soak in your values,
and let the Universe dance around you.
You cannot control the tides,
but your example can help others swim.
Dear Digestive System,
I am writing to inquire about your knowledge of what actions I am doing, when I am doing them. I am most curious, due to the timing in which you choose to engage your evacuation processes. You see, the timing almost always ends in a considerable amount of disappointment. For instance, today I had just finished making the porcelain commode shine brilliantly, and when I stood up to admire my hard work, you began your churning.
Could we perhaps have a meeting to iron out a more efficient schedule for us both?
Sincerely,
The Brain and Entire Central Nervous System
Stop romanticizing plots coming full circle.
There’s not always a profound reason for terrible situations.
And when there’s not, people will waste their lives waiting and watching.
Instead of moving on and living.
There won’t always be a happy ending.
There won’t always be a neat fit to the jagged hole left behind.
And if you’re clinging on to the theory of a grand plan, I am afraid you have failed to account for the ambiguity of the author.
Moments are pearls. The beauty is, you can decide which ones to string together.
He took her body from her that night.
He didn’t give it back, either.
It took her years to find it.
And when she did, it was in dire need of repair.
She didn’t know how to mend it, so she wore it broken.
Fixing pieces as she learned how.
She still is finding things to repair.
But her body is hers, again.
Chest tightly bound with a corset made of anxiety, it’s hard to take in air, and even harder to let it out. Stomach clenched and soured at the same time. Legs exit the situation and go numb. Crotch is aflame. Head feels fuzzy. Brain can’t decide whether to focus on the trauma, or take a vacation at disassociation island.
It’s a deep-trauma trigger. You have to breathe through this and keep moving.
It’s 9:29am and morning me has been subdued by a jalapeño pocket with Sriracha, and an iced half caf peppermint mocha.
She’s still not wrong. I’m just too overwhelmed, busy, and depressed to let her drive.
Cheers to being human in this dehumanizing society.
*clink*
Morning me wakes up with fresh eyes to the bullshit.
Morning me is a bitch, but not a bad one, a hurt one.
Morning me wakes up with the self love and advocacy that I talk myself out of every day by 10am.
Morning me knows I am making myself sick by allowing what I allow.
Morning me isn’t scared of money, or relationships, or death.
Morning me is biding her time to thrive or die.
If morning me dies, who I am might die with her.
I’m sorry, morning me. I know I am failing you, medicating you, gaslighting you…
But insecure me has a grip on the wheel too tight to see what she’s doing to us.
At least the road is paved. Even if it is paved with bullshit.
While doing laundry, I came across my daughter’s terry cloth swimsuit cover. A deep ocean blue size 10 youth reminder of summer. I’m not sure how I’ve not washed it and put it away for the season with the rest of the summer things, but I don’t mind. For some reason it makes me feel happy. It gets washed, it gets dried, it gets folded. When I bend over and open the summer tote, I feel like I get slapped by a rainbow. The smell of clean swimsuits and beach towels, the bright sunny colors, and the flood of sunshine filled memories makes me feel happy. Maybe invisible summer rays of vitamin D were inside the tote and exploded all over me when I opened it and soaked into my skin and made my brain smile. It’s a working theory. Anyway, it was a lovely experience in my basement laundry room, on a snowy Iowa December Wednesday.
Beautiful light dims
Humanity cries alone
The world is bleeding
Words for humans 