What do you do on a day off? I’m genuinely asking. I had one today, and I think I did it wrong.

I got up at 11, had cereal. Walked to 7-eleven to buy cigarettes. Painted. Took a bath. And called a friend. Now I’m sitting here, having done no homework and having applied to exactly zero jobs, feeling like I need to do something extravagant to offset the unending lameness I seem to have chosen. 

I could drink tequila and lament my losses, but I think instead I’ll paint my nails black and plot. I applied to my (pre-quarantine) favorite restaurant yesterday. I used to make bank waiting tables–people love drinking, but even more they love small women who are nice to them. I tend to get good tips, but man it’s been like two years since these noodle arms have carried a tray of half-raw meat. 

Regardless, my hope is that I’ll get the job, make money, and what? Letterpress and publish my own writing? Who the hell knows. 

I know very few things with certainty, dear reader, but one is that Boulder–my lovely, pseudo-hippie, performatively activist Boulder, is wearing on me. I’m hoping that a job change will help, but I’m wary–I’ve seen all of it. 

Why are my calves so chiseled, dear, sweet reader? I walk EVERYWHERE. I have no car, and so I have seen every inch of Boulder’s sidewalks so many times. It is all overpriced. It is all terribly sad. 

Boulder treats its unhoused population–which is, per capita, incredibly large–like trash. There was a city-wide ban on tents in public spaces. One has to test negative of any drug use before being allowed into a shelter. Hippies? I think the fuck not. 

I wonder if this is everywhere. I’ve only lived in a handful of cities–mostly in New York–but they’ve seemed kinder to me. Even so, I don’t think I’ll go back to New York right now. The mountains and my buddhist art school keep me. My best friend lives half an hour away, and that keeps me too. 

I remember two years ago this week, Kaity (best friend) and I were becoming fast friends. We hated ourselves, but we loved each other. We saw in each other what we could not see in ourselves–have you ever had this experience? It’s really something, seriously. I think maybe this is why I’m so eager to point out beauty when I see it–why I write about a boring day off, or why I never hide how I feel about the people in my life. What if they don’t know? What if they don’t know the ways that they are beautiful? I really don’t give a fuck that I’m embarrisingly earnest. I like myself that way.

I’ve been looking into teaching jobs too, beautiful reader. Substitute teaching, tutoring, working in a preschool–I know this is where I’d like to be. I remember a summer job I had in New York, doing art with kids who didn’t have a place to go during the long summer days. All they wanted to hear was that they were okay–that they were okay and good at something. We drew for hours–coloring or sketching flowers and trees. I told them they were incredible, and I’d watch them change. 

I think that, in order to be happy in Boulder, and to find a job or write in a way that means something to me, I have to remember why I’m here. My best friend. My school. The mountains. I’m here to do something. On the days I don’t spend working soulless retail, I have to remember what brought me out here. 

I wanted to start over. I wanted to be okay. I wanted to be beautiful, and good at something. And so on my day off, I walk. I buy cigarettes. I paint. And I write to you.

I love you, dear reader. 

Take good care. 

When I feel a particularly strong, negative emotion, dear reader, I do one of about four things.

1. Get Very Drunk
2. Write Bad Poetry
3. Run Very Far
4. Make Lists

Say, I’m on a walk, right? And a man yells to me “take off your mask so I can see you smile.” 

Like tonight, say. I’m on a walk and this man yells to me–the only woman around who is alone. There are people on the other side of the street. Walking together. A man and a woman, holding hands. But I am the one he yells at. 

I am alone, and small, and a woman. More importantly, though, I don’t have that striking kind of beauty–the kind that makes people silent when they see me. I’m just me in a mask. My bangs are straight up–blowing in the wind, and my jacket is tight to my chest. I’m just me.

Say, I feel like I’m not enough. That I am just a bland, silly, kid who used to be skinny. That I need to be Something More if I’m ever going to be happy enough to want this life I’ve got. That being me is a practice in disappointing others.

 That I’ll compare myself to others until I end up empty. Again.

I don’t have any wine glasses, dear reader. I have some champagne flutes that my boss gave me instead of throwing them away–but other than that I just have tall, water glasses. Or mugs. This is what I fill when I feel strong, negative emotions.

OR! Let’s say I don’t do that. Let’s say I see clearly how that won’t help and I choose to do something else. That I’m going to write–that I have to. 

The thing that comes quickest is a list, sweet, understanding reader. I’m going to make one now. 

Because I feel like shit. 

BUT! Just to keep it spicy–keep it fresh—I’m going to compile a list of lists I’ve made in times like these. They’re great, honestly. They keep me sane.

Forgive me.

1. Times that I’ve felt powerful enough to start a cult (5)
2. Times I’ve been propositioned a threesome by strangers in downtown Boulder (3)
3. Times I’ve politely declined (3)
4. Times I’ve hurt myself while cutting my bangs (4)
5. Times I’ve cried in a dive bar bathroom (6)
6. Number of photos I’ve taken of myself that I like (1)
7. Number of packages stolen from my porch this year (5)
8. Number of times I’ve bought people gifts before they decided they don’t want to know me, then kept them for myself (5)
9. Number of books I’ve loaned and never gotten back (9)
10. Number of books I’ve loaned and gotten back (1)
11. Times I’ve walked over a mile at 3 am (11)
12. Times I felt happy in my body (4)
13. Pens that I absolutely cannot lose (2)
14. Times I regret what I write (0)
15. Tweets I delete 5 seconds after tweeting them (1435)
16. Fucks I give (so many, man.)

Right now, I’d like to do one of about 4 things. I think though, I’ll go to bed. I’ll sleep and get up tomorrow and go to work and try my best to not hate the person I am. Because she tries really fucking hard.

I love you, dear reader.

You’re enough.

Sleep well. 

When I’m walking down a narrow sidewalk, dear reader, I feel in my chest an unshakable worry. I hang one headphone over my ear–usually the left–so that I can hear approaching cyclists and thrust myself into whichever patch of grass is closest. Still, this does little to comfort me. 

I look over my shoulder a worrying amount–I am very much afraid of being smooshed, or at the very least, thoroughly spooked. There’s a bike lane, you see, that goes largely unused by commuter cyclists. They really prefer the sidewalk, and seemingly more so the thin stretch of sidewalk wherever I am walking. 

I feel much the same about academia–there is a very clearly marked lane where they travel, yet somehow where I stand–in an adjacent path–I am still afraid. And annoyed. I know I’m not justified in this annoyance when it comes to cyclists–they are courteous so long as I hear them coming–but academics. Oh I have a lot to say.

Arguably the greatest acknowledgement I’ve received from someone dubbed an “academic” was, “I appreciate your willingness to begin a discussion with dissent.” It was mostly sarcastic, entirely dismissive, and wholly hilarious to me. 

We were discussing a bit of poetry I found particularly inaccessible, and I was called on to speak. I said, “if the majority of people reading will feel stupid if they make an attempt at understanding, why write at all?”

Of course this is counterintuitive to the practice of studying poetry, of course it wasn’t a super productive thing to say, of course I said it anyway because I sincerely don’t understand the desire to confuse someone who is choosing to read your work.

I love poetry–and writing more generally–because this art proves again and again that words, even words from a stranger, can make you feel something. It feels good to respond to silent words in your head. It’s so painfully personal to read and to write–to understand in this way–so why do poets often insist on writing in such an inaccessible way? Why do we have to analyze something to death when the only analysis I’d ever want someone to give of my writing is, “it made me feel ___.”

I am so lucky to be getting an education, and even more so for the scholarship that allows me to attend a university like the one I do. I am grateful, too, for academics in a broader sense. Without them we would not have vaccines–modern medicine–an understanding of our own bodies. 

What I am not grateful for, dear sweet reader, is the gatekeeping of knowledge that takes place among academics. It is in fact an illusion. Academia may have us believe that knowledge belongs only to those who receive a college education, or who read and reread texts in the hope of forming some groundbreaking analysis. It is a lie, and a dangerous one. 

Learning happens everywhere, knowledge is and has always been entirely shared. To not respect that, to require a degree or some level of performative study is just silly. 

This rant, for which I apologize only a tiny bit, was brought on by a three hour discussion of a 7 line poem. Just 23 words. It is an elegy–a poem for a dead loved one–by Donald Revell. It goes like this:

myself the other

winter even more

myself the other

still  as  obscure

a milk white one

a coal black one

winter even more

After reading and rereading and rereading again while looking down his nose at us, the professor explained the poem in lofty terms. He spoke of the ethics and rules of its language. We were all jumping at the chance to say just a few words about these few words so that we may seem intelligent enough to understand such art. Bullshit. 

This is a beautiful poem. It’s gorgeous and sad and contained within itself. I love it. However, I don’t think it warrants 3 hours and fourteen–I counted–fourteen rereadings aloud. 

I don’t think it warrants worry and obsession from a class of 20 students just to speak a few words in exchange for an A in participation. Donald Revell–and I am projecting here so I apologize–didn’t want that. He just wanted his words to be read, to make the reader feel something. 

After our 3 hour discussion, we were given the assignment to write in the way he did–with a disconnection from the concept of self and other. A disconnection that we discussed thoroughly, oh so fucking thoroughly, during these long hours. 

I’m going to share with you what I wrote, dear reader, in anger and in despondency to those who look perpetually down their noses.  

It’s inspired by one of my favorite poems by Julie Sheehan, called Poem 127: Hate Poem. Check it out, it’s really something. You can find it very easily for free on the internet. I won’t even ask you to analyze it.

Here’s mine. Don’t think about it too much:

–

myself the other, hates you.

winter — coal — the milk in my fridge 

hate you.

the hand reaching 

from the grave (plastic of course) and used

for October decoration hates you.

the extension cord — my only constant — hates you.

the carpet speckled and curious. hate.

the dirty mug neglected

for 41 nights hates you too.

my poor circulation hates me, 

but it hates you more, assuredly. 

the rippings from my hairbrush are flushed

down the toilet while hating you.

the last sip of beer–warm and flat–

mostly flem

hates you as an equal.

the air outside even

Watch how it moves away

When you walk–clearly hate.

the slant in the letter L hates you 

the curve in the S even more so.

Kentucky derby hats–though ugly and obscene–

are redeemed by whimsy and so rightfully hate you. 

the last library book in existence

will surely hate you. 

the trees–even dead ones–even 

the patch of dirt that implies 

eventual tree 

hates you. 

the act of fucking exists 

in spite of you.

so naturally, its hate is worst

of all.

–

I love you so much dear reader.

Take good care. 

The thing I miss most about bars, I think, is walking home. 

I love walking home. I love leaving a place that’s too hot or loud or dull and going out into the cold.

This is why people smoke, I think–other than the obvious which is that it’s fucking cool and feels good. People go for a smoke because they want to walk home, but aren’t ready to leave. That’s what I think, at least. 

It’s not the stumble-home-drunk that I liked–no I liked the runny nose, tangled headphones, heeled-boots clunking through slush.

I was walking home with my roommate last winter, dear reader. It was cold and snowy and I had on a jacket much longer than my skirt. 

We walked by a group of older women sitting on their porch–complete strangers having a fucking blast. We waved and yelled hello, and they invited us up without question. We talked, we sat, we met the kids who threw open the door and ran outside in slippers. It was great.

I spoke most to a woman with short, blonde hair and skinny legs. She was funny and callous and I liked her immediately. I asked her what she loved to do. 

“Pole dancing.” 

My eyes are already big, dear reader–buggish you might say–but I like to imagine them grinch’s-heart-style in that moment. Just absolutely obliterating my skull. 

“I want to do that.” 

She gave me her number, and I called her the next day.

I got a few lessons, the worst bruise I’ve ever had, and a solid gold homie.

I love walking home. 

It’s not just from bars, though that is a five star walk. I like having a good, long transition from being around, to being at home. I like the stuff that happens in between.

I like that I can do it myself, too. That I don’t need anyone or anything–just my legs. And maybe some phone battery. 

I can get home, just me, and I like knowing that. 

For now, dear reader, don’t go out. But, if you’d like to and are able, go for a walk. It feels good.

I love you. Lots.

Please take care.

I’ve written about compliments before, dear reader. How the best of them are not meant to stroke your cock, but to explain something.

I believe this, dear reader—I do. But I also know it’s important to be careful what you hold on to.

My example was a real one; I was crying to my mom over a boy, saying, “he’s such a special person to me.”

My mom said simply, “Everyone’s a special person to you, Allison. That’s just who you are.”

It wasn’t meant to be a compliment–just meant. It was true, and I’ve never forgotten it.

Everyone is a special person to me. Okay, fine. But I’m not in love with everyone. C’mon. What I am, however, is extraordinarily sensitive. After spending twenty-three years trying to stomp that out, I’ve instead decided to embrace it here with you–often in long winded eulogies for some aspect of myself I’ve had enough of.

The good news is, it doesn’t really matter that I ramble. I am gloriously irrelevant to most everyone, and because of this I’m able to talk freely about the things that scare me, including but not limited to my once pancaked butt, or my journey to dick sucking. I think I’d do this even if I weren’t irrelevant, but that is my own faulty earnestness.

Listening to someone explain who you are. Listening to them say they don’t care about the things you care about. Listening to them tell you all the reasons why the person you’ve chosen to be is wrong. That shit is like swallowing someone else’s vomit.

And I used to swallow it.

It’s important to remember, my dearest reader, that these words are not all you are. In all honesty, these words are none of who you are.

This hasn’t happened to me in a good while, dear reader–getting told who I am. I’d say I’m grateful, but I think I’m just smarter now. I know myself better–what I want and how I deserve to be treated. I dunno, really. I don’t take nearly the shit I used to–and no way is this exclusive to my interactions with others. I’m stronger than I used to be, you see. Generally.

Must be the tits.

I got into a fight, dear reader, with my male roommate a few weeks ago. He was saying my name a bunch–telling me that I, Allison, was wrong. He wasn’t really SAYING anything, though–do you know what I mean? He was working himself up and I was just standing there.

I think I’d be a fucking knockout at verbal arguments if I felt they were worth even an ounce of my energy, but alas. I know that most often they’re not–that if you ask the person attacking enough questions–calmly–they’ll figure out how silly they sound. So I just stood there, nodding.

What he said before slamming his door was, “I live with a child.” This, dear reader, lit me on fire. Not only had he acted in a way I’d describe as childish by inconsolably yelling nonsense, but I had refused to react.

What I did next, dear sweet reader, was knock on his door and say,

“Do not speak to me like that. You do not get to say who or what I am.”

And then he yelled some more.

This was all because I knocked on the bathroom door. How. Does this. Make sense.

Crazy shit, man. But honestly, it felt good to not bury it all. I used to bury so much, for so many of the men in my life. No more.

I used to dread telling my dad anything about my life–and though it’s endlessly better now, I haven’t forgotten this fear.

In 2019 I listened to hours and hours of music I wasn’t “allowed” to speak over–boy howdy, I will never forgive myself for that one.

I consoled a guy after he told me he cheated on me. True story.

I had a roommate who didn’t take care of his dogs–so instead I walked and cleaned their shit in the moments I had between work and school.

No more, dear reader. Not in a very long time.

Oh my GOD are there genuinely kind, beautiful men in the world. And no way is this a gender-exclusive issue. Everyone has the capacity to make others feel small. But those that don’t ask you to bury anything–who leave you room to speak–heaven.

Do not give time or energy to anyone–regardless of gender–who asks you to be silent. Wait for the people who encourage you to speak.

Please. This is so important.

I love you, dear reader.

So much.

Please please please take care of yourself.

I want to write about Elmira. I want to go back too, but only sometimes.

I’ve made the drive so many times; I can see the whole thing if I close my eyes. It’s really just a straight shot from my godforsaken hometown to this godforsaken city. Just about four hours.

Though equal in their failings, Elmira is one of a kind–that kind being both deeply depressing and achingly hopeful. It’s a fucked combination, and one notorious for keeping people stuck.

It is disguised liminality; stretched and distorted by time. This place is not a definitive Here. It’s a graveyard the size of a town; one with big, iron gates where no one rests. 

With dreams fully intact they grow older and then old–the lovely citizens of Elmira, New York.

Without loss there is no mourning–there is no call to be remembered, no back cover. Here–or rather there–dreams outlive the body. 

They may choose to stay–these dreams–in the empty stomach of some small girl who found this place at nineteen. I only needed a place that could help me learn to feed myself. It seems a small ask, but was in fact impossible–in Elmira at least. I learned to eat at 5,000 feet, but that’s for another time. 

I fell in love in Elmira. I fell in love with the safety of the house that I lived in–the one filled with other anorexics who were just as cold and lonely–with the way it felt to eat again–with the hills and the rain and the hopefulness.

It’s romantic so long as I don’t think about it. 

I want to go back, but I don’t think I ever will. But it’s nice to remember.

I love you my dear, sweet reader.

Take care.

I don’t cry often, dear reader. Maybe the result of years and years of psychotropic drugs. I think however, it is more likely the years of habitual, compulsive numbing. But who knows.

I’m working on it though–crying more often. I’m tapping into the little bitch I am.

Because I don’t cry often, dear reader, when I do it’s for everything.

It’s quite dramatic, really. It’s not my usual lay-on-the-floor-and-be-emo way of dealing with things. It’s big, crocodile tears and a gaping hole in my chest. Honestly, and maybe shamefully, it feels good. I don’t realize how tightly I’m holding onto something until it’s spilling over–until I’m a thousand pounds lighter.

Last night, dear reader, I had myself a cry.

I was talking–just talking–with my parents about my life in Colorado. Somehow, perhaps by the hand of the devil himself, the conversation turned to an eye doctor that I don’t currently have–I need one, apparently and I better start looking. I started to talk about visual snow–a condition I’ve had all my life, and that continues to be a glowing gem in the crown of my physical fuckery.

Visual snow syndrome is truly ass. It’s an incredibly rare condition that causes pixel or static-like dots to veil the entire field of vision. It doesn’t obstruct vision entirely, dear reader, and this is why I’m not yet legally blind. It’s just a veil; a strange screen over everything I see. It makes life seem less real–or I imagine it does. I don’t remember my life before the dots.

The best part of visual snow, dear, sweet reader, is that nobody, and I truly do mean nobody, believes me. It’s a thing though, I promise. Like, I’ve done a ton of research. But doctors think I’m lying, or that I have “floaters”–a relatively common visual annoyance.

But it’s real. It is. I have a screen of static over my eyes, and I’m almost completely blind in the dark. I tell you this not to complain, dear reader, though it really does sound that way (sorry) ((I am a little bitch.))

I’m telling you because my father didn’t know I have visual snow–that I’ve had it all my life–until last night when I mentioned it casually. I explained.

He didn’t believe me, of course. Who would? He didn’t believe me, and suddenly I was eight years old and I couldn’t breathe.

I was eight years old and I knew I was going to die. I was gasping for breath for the third time that week, and I was insane. A problem. There was no reason. It didn’t make sense that an eight year old could just stop breathing. That this could come from panic.

He didn’t believe me, and suddenly I was 18 and had just lost 40 lbs in 4 months. I was trying to explain that i couldn’t eat. That my mind wouldn’t let me. But I was crazy for it. There was no reason. It didn’t make sense.

He didn’t believe me last night, and so I turned to him and said, “listen to what I’m saying. This is hard for me.”

He listened, dear reader. He apologized.

It only took 23 years.

I cried a lot, for all of this.

Thank you for listening, dear reader. I love you.

And I believe you.

At least when I was starving myself, I understood what it was that I was after. I wanted to be smaller. To be nothing. I wanted to be concave to the point of collapse. I was hurting desperately, but I knew exactly what it felt like to be in my body–even though I’d made it unfamiliar. I was cold. I was empty. I was bone on bone grinding.

It’s a sickness to search for certainty like that–in one’s own body before all else. But doing so–starving oneself to be smaller–is accepted because thinness is desirable. Still this is the case.

This makes me want to rip my fucking hair out.

But. At least when I was starving myself, I wasn’t angry at the men who didn’t mind. You see, now, will a full stomach and a year of recovery–I have to address the image in my mind, played back and back again, of a boy looking at my emaciated, underdeveloped body and saying “you’re perfect.” I was 18 years old. A freshman in college. And was barely staying upright.

It wasn’t his fault. Though I’m sitting here seething at these words, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault that I assumed he meant my ribs. My collarbone. That I decided then that starving myself so as not to feel, actually made me beautiful too. That it gave me everything.

It wasn’t his fault that I hadn’t eaten that day, and wouldn’t the next. It was confirmation bias.

At least when I was starving myself, I didn’t think about possibilities. I had none, and so I sat still and certain with my glass of ice water and blue, bloodless toes.

Now, I feel the desperate fucking weight of wanting a life. I want so badly to be a writer. I want it so fucking badly–it is the only future that doesn’t make me want to croak right here, right now.

However. In order to pay rent, I’m going to have to give my life to something else–I know this.

This knowledge is breaking my heart.

When I was starving myself, I couldn’t feel confusion or anger or desire or loss or panic. I couldn’t fear the future when I was starving, and that was perhaps its greatest benefit.

It was so nice, I thought–to hear things like “you’re perfect” from some guy in some basement of some cold, unforgiving house. To have exactly four thoughts and to hold them all in the palm of my hand, ready to show everyone.

I am thin

I am agreeable

I will die young

No, I don’t mind

But when I was starving myself, dear reader, I couldn’t feel anything. I couldn’t look at my family and cry, or blush just thinking about someone’s eyes.

I have more thoughts now, dear reader, and thank fucking Christ for that. I don’t think that guy would say “you’re perfect” if he saw me naked today. But, sweet reader, isn’t it just so fantastic that he never, ever will?

I’ll figure out a way to get a life I don’t mind sticking around for.

Of that I am almost entirely certain.

Take care my strong, intelligent reader.

I adore you.

I’m angry, dear reader. I’m fucking mad. I’m pissed off and it’s really just such a drag. 

I spend an insane amount of time repressing anger–it doesn’t do me any good and usually I can empathize enough to let go of it. But today, oh today. I am pissed off. 

I’ve been fuming at my ceiling for a good hour now. I got home from work, took off all my clothes, and laid on my back to be angry. It’s a horrible feeling, and I really just want it to stop. 

Anger is the most confusing symptom of depression to me. It is also my least favorite. fucking worst. I hate feeling anger, especially when the source is hazy. 

I’m mad at myself, which makes it all the more fun to lay here on fire. 

But, you know what I’d like to do dear, sweet reader, whom I could never be angry at? Unload some of these here twitter drafts in the hopes that thrusting some words into the ether might help me feel lighter.

Here you go. 

–

me staring at tv: this is so dramatic they’re just staring at stuff and emoting

who am I to ask for stuff when look. there’s stuff right here.

“your life is so exciting” it is literally not I’m just good at talking about it

I am not hardwired for anything those wires are flailing about  

the message said “enjoy your meal” when my cigarettes were delivered

hello thank you for calling jcrew factory, I am jonesing how can I help you 

the least realistic part of that movie is someone named a baby Kevin

I’ve had imaginary beef with an indie pop sensation for a while now

I’ve really lost my taste for this virus

I wanna be one o them inspirational poetry accounts but I can’t seem to stop being horny online

I saw Hinder by accident once and it didn’t feel good

just said “pull-quote” and threw up a lil

Jesus Christ he’s Hot

bb stands for buddy boy

I haven’t had the opportunity to say “wanna see the weird thing I can do with my arms” in so long this is probably for the best

just saw a video of deadheads dancing in social distance and decided to go back to bed

no quit in her

cooking obscenely garlicky meals without remorse is a plus

It’s really lovely that I intended to mail my favorite peanut butter to someone then ate it all. It was really tasty and I don’t think they’d mind.  

I accidentally sent “choke me” joke to acquaintance instead of best friend and now I have one less acquaintance.

I cry before therapy so as not to pay to give performance art. 

just because you come in here with your Birkenstocks and your phish t shirt

I will absolutely sacrifice prep time to make a dick out of chess pieces

–

That’s enough for now, my lovely reader. I feel better. 

Take good care. Stay warm. Call a friend.

I love you tons.

There are more than two sides to every coin, dear reader–there’s also an edge.

Why do we never talk about this?

On one side is “your gift” right? You’re brilliant. You’re smart; you’re good at math; you know how to speak or write in a way that people want to listen to. You’re beautiful. You’re kind. You’re a mother. 

On the other side is the cost. What darkness came before, comes after, comes as a result? What did you have to give up? What does your brain say in response? What, basically, is wrong with you? 

What made you this way?

They say there are two sides, right? Your gift, and its cost. But what about the edge? There’s depth, see. There’s depth that we don’t talk about.

I love the inbetween. I live there, or try to. I think about writing. I think about falling in love. I think about the things I’m good at and I think about their cost. I drink too much sometimes. I’m addicted to nicotine. I starve myself–or did. I do all of this because my brain is the way that it is. All of it. 

The in between though, that sweet center, is infinite. I could divide it in half forever and it would still be there, holding me together. I don’t know exactly what that is, dear reader, but I know that’s who I am. I am not just one of two things.

I think if I’m to love myself, I have to hold myself together. The dangly bits sometimes drag behind me, but I’ve got to keep a hold of them. I do.

The middle seat is always the worst, but that just means you’re the friend that both people–the ones on either side–don’t mind pressing their thighs too. I don’t know if that’s relevant. I just kinda thought of it now. 

No wait, I got it: the middle is ignored, or written off, but it is where the best of us live. 

This is where the best of us live. 

Right there in the center, not giving too much to either side. Being all of it. 

I love you so much.

–All of me.