Things I’m OK With.

Older, always getting older. Lines I never had before (and only I can notice) have begun appearing on my face. My chubby cheeks are a little more sunken because age attacks your face first and then the rest of your body. But I’m not one to talk, I’m 27.

I can hear folks older than me already, telling me I’m still a fucking baby compared to them and the truth is, I AM, in the chronological sense. In life experience, I’m sure I’m almost on par. You can pack a lot of lessons in only a few years if you make enough bad choices. I’ve found myself on the business end of a metaphorical gun more than once and lived to tell the tale. Maybe I’ve come out a little damaged, a little bruised on the inside where I’ve learned to hide my feelings, but I still draw fresh breath every day and I consider that a pretty big win.

I’ve said it more than once: I’ve already lived ten years longer than I ever planned to. Teenage me was a bundle of raw nerve endings and hormones wrapped up in a body too big for society to deem worthy. I was filled up with hurt and hopelessness and the light at the end of the tunnel shone too bright for me to see. Everything was dark around me back then, and I almost convinced myself it wasn’t worth pushing forward.

I’ve said this all before.

Forgive me for my presumption, but now that I’m on the other side of my self-imposed hellhole, I have some room to breathe. I have perspective. And the older I get, the easier it becomes to not give a shit what anybody thinks of me or my choices.

Folks will always judge — we’re social creatures and sometimes we bond over the tearing down of another human being. Or we care too much, think we know what’s best better than the person those decisions directly affect. That’s OK. Advice is nice sometimes and even when it’s not, no one says you have to take it.

I don’t want to live my life through someone else’s eyes. So I won’t.

There are a lot of things that bothered me in years past that I’ve found a way to make peace with. Some aspects of my personality that will probably never change, or I don’t want to change. I want to accept, and know myself, because we all die alone and I’ll be no different. If I’m not a friend to myself, how can I be a friend to anyone else?

I’m a loner. That’s OK, sometimes it’s better to just hang out by yourself. I don’t often get lonely, and if I do I call upon one of my few fantastic friends and they’re there to help me out. There’s no shame in watching Netflix all day, ignoring dishes and phone calls and invitations to go out with random dudes off the internet. There’s no shame in holing myself up in my room, playing computer games until my tired eyes beg me to go to sleep.

I’m fat. There we go, I said it. I’m closer to the biggest I’ve ever been than I am to the smallest, but somehow I’ve run out of fucks to give on that subject. Sure, maybe I met a dude one time and he told me all about how my personality is amazing and I have a beautiful face but DAMN if I was 70lbs thinner I’d be a real knockout. Excuse me, fuckhead. I AM A KNOCKOUT ALREADY and if you don’t believe me, maybe I should right hook you into unconsciousness? THANKS FOR THE HATEFUCK AND GOODBYE. I’m (relatively) healthy, my size doesn’t impede me from physical activities, I walk for an hour five days a week, and even if I did none of those things and just sat around eating cheesecakes all day, that’s my business and I can do whatever the hell I want.

I care, even though I try not to. Those chicks who are aloof and kinda punk rock and don’t seem to give a fuck about anything? MY HEROES. I try to emulate them the best I can but when it comes down to it, I totally want to hear about your dream last night or that time your cat died or all the subtle nuances of your favorite movie because I LOVE YOU SO MUCH IT HURTS. Physically hurts. I would go to bat for any one of my friends for any reason, I’m a loyal ass motherfucker. Sometimes I can’t stand up for myself but I’ll be damned if I don’t stand up for others.

I’m a slow fucking writer. Yeah, it takes me ten thousand years to organize the scrambled thoughts banging around in my noggin but every word is worth it, even the shit ones. I’ve failed NaNoWriMo twice and I’ll fail it again next year but the point of doing things isn’t always to succeed or have all the bragging rights forever, sometimes the point of doing things is just to fucking DO SOMETHING. Starting things is difficult, especially when those things involve sitting down and writing and finding ways to not distract myself for six hours on Reddit. Finishing them can be even harder, but I still feel accomplished when I’ve at least STARTED something.

It’s a new year. That doesn’t always mean a new you. Sometimes it’s better to just accept yourself the way you fucking are and make small changes when you’re ready for them. LEARN TO WALK BEFORE YOU FUCKING RUN.

Welcome back.

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Sorting out my life by writing about it.

Speak freely.

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