WHAT THE FUCK ABOUT ME?
Lately I’ve been writing again. Not every day. Not on some schedule. Not because I suddenly found discipline or figured my shit out. I write when something gets under my skin badly enough that I can’t leave it there. I write when I’m angry. When I’m grieving. When something somebody said six years ago suddenly makes sense in a way I wish it fucking didn’t. I write when I’m sitting in the middle of a life I built and wondering how the hell I became a stranger inside of it. And apparently, from the outside, that can look a whole lot like doing nothing. Sitting on my computer. Smoking. Thinking. Going back over old conversations and old memories and shit I probably should have left buried. But I’m never really doing nothing. I’m trying to understand what happened to me. Sometimes what I allowed to happen to me. Sometimes what I did to myself. And lately, a whole fucking lot of what happened between me and the man I spent most of my adult life loving. Then I tak...