I am fully aware that you’re as freaked out and busy as the person in charge of keeping Giada De Laurentiis’s Bengal Tiger incisors in check but could you possibly arrange it so I MIGHT POSSIBLY MAYBE know and accept myself before I am One Hundred and Fifty Years Old?
Although I do not keep in touch as much as I should, somehow, I know that you will do your best in order to make this happen for me. (pssst: like, for example, the fact that I don’t believe in you totally at all will not prevent you from giving me Hope and Guidance.)
Sound good? Great! Because, I’m over here in my corner doing my level best—going to therapy, writing in my journal like a nice really nice version of Edna St. Vincent Millay, surrounding myself with sweet meaningful talismans, forgiving everyone I fucking hate because they’re fucking assface hate worthy, letting go of all that would otherwise drag me into the undertow, writing and yelling my heart out into the universe to see if it boomerangs back, refraining from leaping into the wormhole that is my wounded heart, helping every single last person that comes into my orbit naturally because I understand their feeling of awfulness and MOSTLY standing up for the (glorious) evolution of myself, regardless (and especially because of) who and what I lose and find along the way.
Thank You In Advance For Your Understanding,
Detective Myrna Mental
Reflective Thought Division