Hello Internet! Last you stopped by, I’d been lightly overserved and cussed like a sailor-girl (you said see you later, girl) while contributing nothing of value to a discussion about 300 Sandwiches… and for that, I am not sorry.
Look. Here are my feelings on 300 sandwiches. And here are my feelings on acting a fool and reflecting on my foolishness. If I’m 1000% honest here, fair readers; I’m struggling lately… but in the most productive way. I sense that I’m on the brink of something major. Some mind-rupturing brain bullet; some tectonic plate smashing “opa!” of a life-altering circumstance, and I feel like my unconscious has been prepping to meet this inevitable, terrifying, mysterious creature for months now. So it’s been a little too dark in my head to compose Love Lists in earnest, and far too dark to wax poetic on my latest pancake recipe. I’ve discussed my shadowy bits with you before, and I think that by living with the lights off these past few weeks; by (saving electricity and) acknowledging that it’s not always sunny in
Philadelphia Chicago, I’m accepting a part of myself that I usually keep under wraps. Or rather, a part of myself that I usually pump full of serotonin, vitamin D and whatever Kelly Ripa is on.
Truth: somewhere along my life’s journey I deemed it my duty to be happy all the time; to land sunny-side up and plate my insides for the starving brunch bunch. But that’s absurd, right? My real responsibility as I claw my way to 30 is to confront the pieces of me (#emousedtobeathing) that scare me. It scares me to think that my thoughts aren’t important; that I’m not that special. It scares me to contribute to the wasteland of half-baked ideas and inarticulate ramblings that is the internet. Granted, I think we’re all special. I think every sparkly one of us has an innate gift and an obligation to share it. But we’re just people, right? And within all of us, there’s some wicked stuff. Not wicked in the Bostonian way. Not wicked rad. Wicked like this chick:
I’ve been reading this Jungian hippie book from 1982 (loves it), and this is my favorite passage in it thus far:
“Any archetypal pattern is whole, complete in itself. But it is only one aspect of the human. The archetype of the Wise Old Man, for instance, denotes an aspect of wholeness, but striving single-mindedly for wisdom at the expense of, for example, irrational human foolishness, is to miss many of the joys in living. Similarly, the idealized Madonna is a certain perfect image of the feminine, but the real woman must also accept the whore in herself for the sake of her completeness. It is in seeking perfection by isolating and exaggerating parts of ourselves that we become neurotic.”
I live with undigested feelings in my small intestine until I sh*t diamonds. I’m trampled on all the time and I don’t say anything about it because I’m 99% polite. And then… and then I hit The Whistler a bit too hard and the facts slosh out of me like whiskey into my bedazzled whiskey goblet (obv.) Fact: I’ve been holding onto some anger. Fact: I have to become more straightforward about my needs. Fact: I’m not always poised. I’m not always intelligent. Heck, I’m not even always coherent. In short, I’m not perfect… and I don’t want to feel ashamed of that.
This post isn’t meant to serve as some vague disclaimer that absolves me of the responsibility to be a dynamite human — it’s meant to acknowledge that it is my responsibility to own up to my fears and shortcomings so that I can work through them. Embarrassing myself on the internet, chewing on what it means, and deciding not to care… that’s a lesson I’m actively trying to swallow right now.
There will be Love Lists again… probably soon because I had the best weekend everrrr and I’m getting psyched for another. There will be sunshine and solidarity and inspirational pep talks. But there will also be #realtalk. There will also be drunken ravings about sandwiches. And that’s just what you get when you opt to to visit this space. Honesty. No
bullshit bullsh*t. Because, like… who wants to read a book about surviving the terrible twenties written by… you know… Kelly Ripa? Not I, friend. Not I.
What lessons is life teachin’ you right now? Do you, too, feel like you’re pimping out your brain-bunker for the approaching apocalypse? I know toridotgov feels me.
Love you guys. XOXO,