Some honesty, friend: I am deeply uncomfortable scripting this page. I'd rather strip naked, strut across town, welcome myself into my third grade teacher's home, and clip my toenails. Alas, that's several kids of illegal. And gross. So here I sit, dying inside as I type. Hooray!
I'm a poet, writer, improviser, and stigma slayer from Boston. And I'm an idiot. No, really. I am.
I say that in a raw, "this is real life" way. It's a badge of honor.
I've wasted too much time cramming myself into boxes. Too much time playing the role of Cool Girl Without Flaws. And know what? That's exhausting. And the most boring game ever.
I've no room for perfection in my life. Which is great, because perfection has no room for me either. I'm an idiot and a firecracker and I'm here. Mess is mother to all the fun.
And who am I?
I'm a human who greets life with a fist-pumping, foot-stomping "yes, and."
I'm insecure about talking too much. I'm insecure about talking too little.
I adore thrillers and horror movies but 10 times out of 10 forget that the fear will continue after the credits roll, so I sleep with all the lights on. Who says monsters don't lick their lips for adults?
I'm afraid of growing old instead of growing up. Of losing my family. Of settling. I'm afraid A LOT, but I get out of bed anyway.
I see beauty everywhere, especially and always in people. Their tiniest movements are the loveliest, the things they probably don't notice. How she tucks her hair behind her ear and giggles when she's nervous. How he squints and rests his finger on his chin when he's thinking. You are a gift and I wish you could see just how exquisite you are.
I'm ditching the academic degrees and instead framing my favorite mistakes. They're my achievements for being alive. I'm imperfect and that's the only instance of perfect I care for.
I hope you recognize bits of yourself in my words. I hope it helps you to raise your idiot flag. Let's own life's awkwardness. It's far more fun than perfection. Cheers, friend.