What’s up, Bitchfaces? Fam? And you sour faced bitches in the back row waiting for me to give a fuck, how y’all momma doing?
Fantastic. Glad to hear it.
I’m sure y’all can see from the 2am techno that I’m having a crisis of the non-bandagable type. It’s a conundrum, or something similar, and I may or may not need to consult the tarot deck, or the Magic 8ball. The outcome is unclear.
I know I’ve often spoken of some of the fundamental differences between my exes and me. The shit that just couldn’t be spanned with bridges, ropes, dreams, or my refusal to let dead horses remain unbattered. Now, with my history of Fuckboy magnetism, most of those fundamental differences were that I prefer monogamy and they preferred to bang anything moving at 2am. We’re not talking about those pieces of shit, though.
I’m talking about the Good Exes. For instance, one of them has two master’s degrees and is a successful life coach and consultant. Y’all know I can’t keep up with that level of adulting. I can barely coach my own fucking life, and when done it’s poorly, like someone’s drunk uncle out on 3rd base waving everyone in, even if the ball didn’t clear the fucking mound.
I simply wasn’t at a point in my life where I had anything to offer. I’m probably still not, if we’re being honest.
However, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a Good Ex who wasn’t of the same general moral mindset, who truly thought what I do as a human and the path I try to forge were a waste of my time and efforts. I’ve never felt unsupported in my dog snatch and grabs, or my life on the underground, or any of the million other ill-thought-out ideas I have to save the fucking world.
Or maybe I never stopped to ask. I simply told them these were my hobbies and interests, and they all involved being shot at, so it was best to vest up.
I am beginning to wonder if this is the shit that will become the dealbreaker. If my life in general, and my hairbrained ideas and refusal to accept the current tally of my remaining lives is ultimately the reason it “just isn’t working”, or whatever the line may be at the time.
Basically, if I just sat my ass down somewhere and learned how to fucking act, would I blend in a little easier? Not be such a sore thumb?
I might find a supportive post were I to become a wallflower, essentially. Instead of arguing about the mental health of young women in faraway lands or explaining why I have five prepaid checking accounts to dispense funds from or hiding go bags in the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet; I could keep my trap shut for once and test the water without all of these fucking waves.
I swear to God, y’all, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to ignore the 3,000 lb. elephant in the room. I hummed to myself when the little digs were made, and I repeated the mantra to myself, ‘do not engage’ but then someone mentioned Trump and I fucking lost it. I vaguely recall saying something like, ‘if you even think of grabbing me by the pussy, you’ll lose both arms and a goddam eye, hoss’.
I really did try. Really. I nearly bit my tongue off.
Ultimately, it’s a question of trading my moral fabric in for a swatch in a tone similar to beige. I can’t wear beige. I’m a natural blonde, for the love of Mary, I’ll look washed out.
Beige or a cappella. What is a Bitchface to do?
Nah. You are who you are and the wonder & fearless glory of you must be free to go where, when & how the mood strikes. Doubt it could (or should) be otherwise. Someone else’s stumbling & bumbling is on them. We all need you and nobody does you better. Stay.
Please.
You are enough.
You are not too much.
Don't believe the lies you tell yourself 😘