This is Hard.

The most difficult part of telling a story is deciding where to begin.

“The beginning” is always a safe bet, unless you know how long my stories can be.

“Start Somewhere” is another bit of conventional wisdom that I often find just as baffling as it is helpful, until I remember that ‘here’ is ‘somewhere’ too.

So. Here it is. And it just so happens that Here feels like (yet another) beginning of sorts. Starting Over.

The most difficult part of starting over is remembering all the ways you screwed up the last (four or five) time(s) you began, and trying not to do that again. But screwing up is part of starting anything. It’s part of learning.

So, of all the stories I thought I would tell, it turns out the only cohesive one I’ve got right now is about how I’m trying to start over, trying to screw up, trying to NOT screw up (as much or again), and trying to be ok with a certain amount of screwing up. And it’s not much of a story.

This is hard.  Everything I’m starting, everything I’m remembering, doing my best and trying to give myself grace when my best is not good enough—it’s all hard.

I keep telling myself it will get easier. Some of it. Maybe all of it. Until then, this is what I’ve got.



Well, I’ve had it. My stroke of brilliance. I’ve had a few of them lately, but I’ve been waiting for the one that I would sit down and write about all at once. And when I reread it, I could not help but hit ‘publish.’

It’s occurred to me in these “mini-strokes” that I started a blog for all the wrong reasons. And a few of the right ones:

  1. Someone told me to.
  2. It was time.
  3. I was ready.
  4. I was in NO WAY READY at all.
  5. I needed a project.
  6. Another project was the very last thing I needed.
  7. I needed to succeed at something.
  8. I needed to fail. Again. Harder.

I could go on.


Here’s the important thing, though: I am going to go on. I haven’t deleted any of my previous posts. I’ve left them there…let them linger…taunting me. FIXIT!

I’ve been afraid to tell the truth, and I’ve been afraid to lie, but we have a lovely euphemism for that here in the South. It’s called ‘telling a story.’

I have heard it come out of my own mouth when children tell me something outrageous, like that a dinosaur ate their breakfast. I’ll say: ‘Is that true? I think you’re telling a story!”

Of course they are. It’s fun, and it’s funny. And that’s what I’m going to do. I’m a great storyteller—always have been.

Another great saying we have in the South to describe someone: “he/she’s a real CHARACTER.” This can be good or bad, depending on the context and the person.

Well, I’m adopting that one too. I am a character, and I have stories to tell. Only I had to figure out whose story to tell…

Mine, of course.

But I had to find it first.


What’s YOUR(MY) Problem?

All right, dammit,

*rolls up sleeves*

Reader 1: you wanted me to shit my thoughts on a blog? Here they come…

Everybody/Anybody else…? Well…NO! I will not run out of steam. I’m pretty much angry at all of you. Every Human Being On the Planet. And then some. And I’d be angry AT the planet, if that would do any good, but I’m too damn sensible…so people it is. ALL you motherfuckers.
And I spent purtneer (“pretty near” for those who don’t speak southern—just like it’s spelled) the whole damn weekend pissing off as many of you as I possibly could (or ignoring the ones I couldn’t) so that you’d leave me the hell alone, finally.

Boy, I am out of practice! I’ve gotten real freakin nice in my old age! I had to throwback 14 whole years to resurrect the kind of bitch I needed to be to piss people off good and proper…and I gotta admit…it felt pretty good. When does behaving badly not?

So…mad at me yet?

Cause this is usually where I drop the truth bomb: I’m not mad at you at all.

Not even a little.

I’m mad at me. Furious. Absolutely. Fucking. Incensed. But I won’t talk to me, hell, I won’t even look at me.
Remember that joke about how ‘I’m so [whatever], my imaginary friends won’t play with me?’ Except my imaginary freinds would LOVE to play with me; it’s my real self that’s being such a goddam bitch.

So I just got fed up with that and acted like a little kid who’s threatened by her bestie’s cool new neighbors: I just chased everybody else off. Cute.
I have one of the highest EQs (emotional intelligence, or empathy in short) of anyone I know, which I attribute almost entirely to reading since childhood (kids need books), how the FUCK is it possible that I, myself, am this emotionally immature?!?

So, I’m sorry, but a lot of this (blog) may have been bullshit…but that’s also probably why there hasn’t been that much of it…so at least there’s that.

Also I guess I’m going to have to start talking to myself, and that’s unlikely to be pleasant all the time (entertaining probably, but not real ‘nice.’), and will almost certainly be confusing as fuck.


We’ll do it your(my) way.




A “Non-binary” Moment

This wasn’t what I planned for my second post, but one of those magical writing moments just happened, and since I now have a platform for sharing them, I thought, “well, just why the hell not?”

Magical writing moments look like this for me:

  1. I see something that moves me. no. something that shoves me, to an extreme emotion–anger or tears, or angry tears (as tonight). Happy emotions also apply but are not on my mind tonight.
  2.  I know what I want to say/have to say about it.
  3.  I am calm enough, somehow, to actually say it.

    Tonight I had the added benefit of being able to address the words and questions to the appropriate individual, because it’s someone I love and trust, and I did. But..

  4. I’m left feeling hungover because these words are not far enough away from me–they are out OF me, but they are not out IN THE WORLD where they need to be.

So here goes experiment #2, I guess:

The following is my Facebook comment in response to a friend’s post on non-binary gender identity. Without naming her or quoting her post, I need to list a few things she says for context:

  • she asks if switching the peels of an apple and banana will make them the opposite fruits (wrapping banana in apple peel and vice versa)
  • she asks what non-binary “even means” (I said I wouldn’t quote, but I find this necessary for emphasis and is not exactly a direct quote)
  • she calls it–the non-binary label, and, by implication at least, the idea–illogical

My response:

A binary is something with only two options: black white, right wrong. Non-binary then is simply the allowance of gray-area or relativism.
We all, whether we believe or admit it, live in non-binaries.
All it really is, my beautiful, faithfilled, loving friend, is the acknowledgement that there is no strict definition that covers every contingency.
In this case, and because this group of people has chosen this word to represent themselves, that there is not one thing that equals “woman” and one thing that equals “man.”

I (personally) fail to see how this is any different from saying there is one thing that equals beauty or love, or, let’s use your apples and bananas. How many varieties of just those two fruits are available at any grocery?

What really baffles me, however, and I say this to you in so much love my heart spills over, is why anyone else thinks it’s their business? Who cares how someone else identifies? Of what consequence is it? I say this to you specifically because I know how much love you have in your heart, [name]; I know-have seen and felt first hand-how you touch people. So I know, from you it isn’t a ignorance/intolerance/misunderstanding/fear of difference/hatred soup. And I genuinely want to know, and feel safe asking you, why does it matter?

First blog post

It’s true. This is my very first blog post.

And it was a pain in the ass.

I could make it a funny story—I’m good at that—what I haven’t mastered yet is the short funny story, so I’ll refrain. Besides, this was supposed to be an exercise for me, from which I learned, or rather, remembered something I have forgotten about myself, emerged victorious, and presented myself with this glorious knowledge wrapped in a beautiful bow.

Oh I learned. Remembered what an asshole I am to myself. And want to gift myself two black eyes—bows optional.

WordPress suggests I use this post to tell my readers (both of you) why I started this blog and what I plan to do with it, but since I really have gotten exactly this far, I’d like to point out that I didn’t choose the graphics, but I think they’re appropriate. I am tired of walking dark featureless roads and being uninterested in what I will find beyond the next curve. I want more sun and peace, more color, warmth, salt water, whatever.

And, damnit. If I have to start a new blog everyday to do it, I guess I will.


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