“Who are you?”
That was the first question in
Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself.
Ironic, isn’t it,
that a book that’s supposed to
help you find yourself expects you to tell it
who you are?
I could write my name in the blank line,
but I’m sure that’s not what Mcleod meant-
since there are seven more blank lines.
I look up at the ceiling,
pondering.
Who am I?
I wonder aloud.
Just then,
I notice the sparkles on the ceiling I’m looking at.
I’ve lived here for three years and never realized
I’ve been living under an artificial Home Depot sky.
I come back to the task at hand.
I put pen to paper-
the handwriting I hate that is mine comes out in a
beautiful fuschia gel shade.
I am a person who talks to herself,
gets distracted by sparkly things,
and is, at times, completely un-observant.
I nod, satisfied.
I think Mcleod would approve.
I continue.
I am terrible at making decisions.
I pause.
But once I make one, I do not change my mind.
Not entirely true,
since I was once married,
and am no longer.
What Mcleod doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
That reminds me.
I am someone who cheats.
No.
I am someone who cheats. I have cheated in past lives, but not in this one.
Much better.
Now on to the nitty gritty.
The thoughts come faster than I can write
and I forget a few.
I am a mother, but have no children.
I long for a father, but refuse to forgive the one I have.
I love alone time, but am terrified to be abandoned.
I work hard, but am irrevocably lazy.
I believe in God, but I think He can be an asshole sometimes.
I want to be a writer, but find every excuse not to write.
I am amazingly stubborn, yet I compromise more than anyone else I know.
I am the saddest girl there ever was,
yet everyone that knows me say,
“How happy she is!”
That’s the one that always gets me.
Unforgettable, cunt, beautiful, odd-looking, sexy, dorky, talented, loser, amazing,
These are all words others have used to describe me;
I cannot help but wonder who it is they are talking about.
When I look in the mirror,
I am just me.
I read everything I’ve just written.
Contradictions, every single one.
I toss Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself on the floor, irritated.
How are you supposed to know who you are when
everything about you is a paradox?
I look back up at my imitation stars.
I think a moment,
about all that I have done,
the people I have known,
the lives I have lived;
then resolutely, I pick up Mcleod’s self help book.
I scribble a little on the corner of a page
to make sure my fuschia pen still works
before I write one more thing.
I am Love.
Nothing But Nonsense
However, when I was looking through the Spam comments just now, I noticed there were several of the same comment made on a number of different posts. I’m paraphrasing here, because ’tis not worthy of a direct quote: Something something about that’s nothing but nonsense.
Basically, I have been found out. It takes a ballsy Spamator to call me out on my utter nonsense. I’m amazed it took someone this long to realize I’m a hack. (a excessively busty hack, but a hack all the same.)
Sure, I can be witty, and surprisingly creative at times, (have you read my smut?) but I openly admit my blog holds very little of import. You will not find great life lessons written here, (other than to NOT propose to your forty-something boyfriend in a post-it, because he will deem it unworthy of an answer) nor will you learn valuable truths (unless they are about me, in which case, if you ever are lucky enough to meet me, are very valuable indeed). To most, it would probably be said that my blog carries less entertainment within than a child’s Dr. Seuss book. (Fun fact: Dr. Seuss wrote for Playboy occasionally.)
To prove it, I will prove how nonsensacle I can be:
It’s true , what They say,
about money growing on trees,
it doesn’t.
But the best things in life are free.
BAM! 30 second poem.
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