Don’t waste that shit.

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Why am I such a coward?

(Originally, I used the word “pussy” before I realized pussies are actually quite powerful pieces of anatomy. Also, the word is misogynistic. Personally, I don’t want to see “pussy” used as an insult any longer; it should be a term of one’s bravery and courage. How about we make a campaign to reclaim pussy? The same that was done with CUNT.)

What do the shadows of my mind have to hold against me? It’s like blackmail to keep me imprisoned.

What am I so scared of?

Failure? Success? Accountability?

Is it the depression? Is it the jaded bitterness in me?

I. Don’t. Know. Anymore.

(I’ve sat at the computer staring at the monitor wondering what the fuck should I say for the past 20 minutes.)

It’s a fear of Death.

I kept worrying about wasting time towards something I have no control over, other than the material I produce. But I have no control over the popularity, over whether I’ll be successful, or if it will be all for naught.

What if I spend my entire life going down one path and I regret it all?

I used to say I never held any regret because I didn’t want to be one of those people who lived a life of regret. But there’s a lot of regret. I fucked up a lot. I ignored advice and I wasted so much time.

The entire photo above tells me to ignore that fear, ignore the regret, and do the things I know that will make me happy.

It’s time to enjoy life and “[not] waste that shit.”

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Why I Write

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Big shout out to Kourtney Heintz for inspiring this post.

I write because I enjoy telling stories. Sitting at a restaurant with my best friend or meeting new people at a bar, I enjoy not only entertaining people with funny or interesting anecdotes, but I am also intrigued by the physical/emotional/mental cues given during the interaction.

Also, as a Leo, I crave the attention.

To be honest, if I go back far enough, I admit I started writing because I enjoyed telling stories as a child. It was done out of necessity for attention. Thanks to issues of abandonment, I found I could pull people in if I had an interesting story.

Of course, it took years to master a tale. People became antsy or annoyed if I took too long or over-explained everything. It had to be believable; no jumping-the-shark moments or I ruined their suspension of disbelief. Lastly, it needed to sound like I knew what I was saying. If I just babbled on without a coherent string of thoughts, people weren’t interested in listening.

While the skill grew out of an unfortunate circumstance, it provided me a way to cope. Granted, I have used the skill for evil: what are lies if not stories? Combine my wholesome, innocent outside appearance with a believable, well-told story, I was able to weasel my way almost out of anything. Since then, I’ve learned to use my powers for good, and I have been capable of overcoming some deeply-rooted psychological inner-demons by pouring them out here on this blog or in a story.

Unlike Kourtney, who wanted to disappear by diving into her story, I wrote to be heard because I thought nobody saw me. I didn’t think I mattered, and I was scared of being forgotten. I’m sure psychologically, in my subconscious, that’s why I write now.

But I feel like I write for more than attention now.

Growing up, I couldn’t find books about stories I wanted to read. Stories set in Urban Fantasy, Horror, Sci-Fi, or even Realistic Fiction genres filled with LGBTQIA characters, especially overweight LGBTQIA characters. I tell my story, talk about my life and experiences, by inserting tidbits into numerous tales. Hopefully, by producing work I wish I could have found growing up, people won’t have to go through feeling abandoned or unseen.

That’s my goal now.

 

Is this real life or just a fucked-up fantasy?

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I’m so fucked-up that my subconscious is messing with me. I had an incredibly vivid dream the other night that I thought was real.

To preface the dream, I have been dealing with some existential life questions about my place of work: is this the place for me? Am I doing what I want to be doing? Do people like me here? Can I accomplish the things I want if I stay? Things of that nature.

I dreamt I arrived at work a little late, something I’d been doing these past few weeks due to – I’m not entirely sure – stress and/or depression in life. No matter how much I sleep, I am too tired to jump out of bed to get ready for work. At my desk, my supervisor and a co-worker appeared behind me.

My supervisor said, “MadGayMan, you need to get your shit together.”

Taken aback, I told her about dealing with stress of living on my own (as this is my second time I’ve lived in my own apartment, but first time I’m truly doing this on my own without any support), my gambling addiction, disliking myself, etc.

My co-worker responded with, “I have a lot going on too, but I show up to work.”

Angry, I gathered my things and told them both to “Fuck off.”

Walking out into the hallway towards the exit, I saw we were conducting a tour for some future colleagues. I looked to each of them and I told them, “Don’t you dare do business with these people.”

As I continued towards the exit, the President of the company yelled, “Fuck you.”

I turned and yelled back “Fuck you too”. He continued with “You’re an asshole.” So, I shook my head and responded with, “You can eat my asshole” and I walked out happy about my over-dramatic exit.

At home, I received a phone call from a different co-worker asking what happened. While I told her the tale, I realized my car had been stolen, so I had to steal a car down the block in order for me to buy me something to eat my feelings.

I woke up shortly after thanks to my alarm clock, but the realization that it had all been a dream and I still had to go to work hit me. It was a letdown and a blessing. But I was most upset that my trip to Popeye’s hadn’t actually happened.