This week fucking sucked. Still sick, still tired, still dealing with too much shit. Still wanting to write, still afraid, still wondering what the fuck I’m doing.


When shit goes down, and I feel depressed and overwhelmed, I try to find the little things that make me feel better. Sometimes, I just need to reach deep within and find the positive aspects of life. So, I document.

I sit by the fire at a cafe and read my friend Jennifer Sky’s brilliant account of her time as a teen model in Japan, Queen of the Tokyo Ballroom.

I carry around Cheryl Strayed’s Tiny Beautiful Things with me, a portable source of strength, stories of pain and hope and survival.

A gift card tucked away in the pocket of my coat last winter is found, and I turn a lunch break into an indulgent experience. Nothing too fancy or expensive, but little reminders of self-care. Inspiration in culture.

Flipping through a magazine on break (I think it was Marie Claire) and getting a shot of self esteem. I chose the last option without even having to think about it. I already have smarts and moves, and I don’t give a fuck about my flabby arms. Give me the wardrobe!

So, life’s not perfect. I’m working every day on being a better version of me, but the version of me that I am right now is pretty fucking tough. I am a survivor. I am a hard worker. I am smart as hell and clean up nicely (though you wouldn’t know it this week. I’ve walked around like a hobo. Let’s not talk about my hair. Let’s just…not).

Maybe I’ll do my nails again today. Maybe I’ll put some more words to paper. Maybe I’ll finally eat something. Maybe I’ll actually get out of bed, turn off The Golden Girls and do something that matters today.



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