This reminds me that I am out of toilet paper.
Hello Sweet Friends. I write today to express a wish you may not expect from the likes of me, what with my (once daily) preachings of EMBRACE CHANGE! Blithely create space amidst the chaos in which to make creepy things and say creepy things; space in which to let the process of unleashing your foamy-mouthed innards -- your FEMINIST RAGE/your youthful obtuseness/your many-headed complexes/ your skittish, salivating, teeth-gnashing GUTS — keep your beauteous brain above in aqua pura. And while doggy paddling along in a tsunami is a necessary life skill requiring keen self awareness and bravery and absolutely every other character trait that I value... my arms are tired. I want a nap and a vegan ice cream cone. I haven't published anything honest in weeks and my guts have essentially gnawed themselves to muculent nubs. Yeah, that's right. Muculent. Nubs.
I'm sick of coping, sick of hustlin'. I am sick in general. I want to be settled -- not in a married old lady kind of way, but in a wholly self-content, boss-ass bitch kind of way... just for a little while, you know? Since I started this blog, it's become more apparent to me that I'm on a path. Reflecting on my interests and the ways I choose to spend my time have clarified my next destination, and I'm grateful for that. But for a while now, I've been stranded on the side of the road with the curbside litter and miscellany and a flat on my theoretical Schwinn. I've learned, in this limbo, that the frustrating part of finally figuring out what you want is living without it for an unknowable length of time. Now the question is "when?" When will Diddy roll up in his four-doored Fiat? When will a plaid-clad Logan Squarian come at me with a gleaming bike pump? When will I finally toss my helmet over my shoulder and declare "I'M WALKIN', BITCHES!"?
Time will tell, homies. Time will tell. Truesdale out.