who doesn’t love an elephant, or an ass to the face?

You know, if I do one thing in this life, I’d like for it to be something good.

When my skin is rotting away, or being picked apart by a scientist in search of the secret to near perfect tits, I don’t seem to think I’d mind not having been a big deal.

What with the being dead, ya know, “no big deal” would be alright. Being the girl who sought peanut butter as a metaphorical device is swell, certainly.

I’d like for my life to be something good. That’s all.

This used to feel more like pressure than drive, dear reader. I used to be very afraid of not being “good” or some derivative like “kind” or “agreeable”. I used to feel this stress like something very heavy on my chest. An elephant, let’s say, to go with a cliche and a cutie.

For a very long time, I felt like there was an elephant on my chest–I couldn’t breath. I was very afraid to die, and perhaps more afraid of causing harm because I wasn’t Good.

These days, the worry looks really different: I’m the elephant. Conceited and contrived as it sounds, it’s not a comment on my new curves (though damn.)

I am the elephant, lovely reader, and every place I’d like to sit is a chest. Hilarious maybe, but I feel like I’d squash people left and right. Absolute smush. Accidentally-crushing-my-own-baby-without-noticing type of deal.

I know: “poor little girl with great tits can’t find somewhere to sit that’s not on top of someone else.” Listen, pal, everything’s relative.

I’m wary of being around; It’s a lot to ask of friends and family to listen—to, as it feels, let me crush them to death. Though I’m sure it would be a pleasure for all involved, I just couldn’t do that. Well–no, can’t.

But, dear reader, I’m maybe starting to get a handle on this feeling-like-a-burden thing. Quiet and complacent are two words that don’t fit anymore, and like my old, obscenely small jeans, they shall be tossed (donated really, but that’s less dramatic.)

I like when other people tell me why and where they hurt. I like to be there. This, I hope, can be the something good.

I’d like to listen, I think. I’d like to listen and write, also.

If this is true for me–if I find so much in listening–it might be okay for me to go ahead and speak. I don’t think I’d crush anyone, at least not immediately.

I say, sit freely, dear reader. Go ahead. I think whoever you’re worried about will appreciate you even more for it.