I think maybe I started this blog to heal something in me.
I need to give up on writing for someone else and just write for me.
I don’t have to be funny, right?
I don’t owe it to anyone for this to even make sense.
My baby is asleep in the car outside my window right now and taking peeks at her every few seconds is making my thinking disjointed.
My god, she’s beautiful.
I want to remember so much about my life. The fucking amazing people I’ve been blessed to meet or, even more wonderfully, been allowed to call my friends.
I want to write down stories from years ago about broken ouija boards or the time it rained without a cloud in the sky or the attack of the butterflies.
And I guess I want people to read them, too. I don’t think anyone will want to read them until I figure out how to write them just for me.
So maybe this blog is really a memoir of sorts.
I can tell you all about when my friend ran diagonally through a busy intersection screaming “STREET CHICKENS!” to scatter the pigeons who were hanging out there. How he proceeded to climb a flag pole and turn himself horizontal to the ground and wave like a little Filipino flag at the cars going by. How I had to explain to the police officer that he was “a little different” and promise that I would take him straight home.
Because that shit was hilarious and everyone should have a friend like him at some point.
So, the point, is- I guess- I’m doing this for me now.
If another human being should stumble upon this train wreck and read it, so be it.
If not, werd.