Here’s why I’m no good at stories

Don’t assume to think to know what to expect from someone like myself, ever. I’m mostly sarcasm and sass; sprinkled with a fuckton of raw bluntness, and thanks to my fucked up brain...a very colorful vocabulary! The only times I mince words are from brain fog or lowered ability to communicate; due to heightened anxieties. 

I probably won’t say what you want to hear, but it may not exactly be the wrong thing to hear ever; but rather an alternative viewpoint not yet considered. I’m good for readjusting skewed viewpoints. 

Looking at a child being raised with zero responsibility, and seeing all the lost moments of failure while building self esteem rather than greed... 

We’re failing ourselves, folks

Didn’t see that coming did you? 

Neither did I! That’s my point! While my brain thinks, it unravels explanations as I speak through the thought process. It’s not easy to follow, and will annoy the fuck out of someone with zero patience and a hate for 30-something empowered women, who speak their damned minds...no matter what pops out their mouths! Yes, we have an explosion of consciousness happening! It’s been going on for a VERY long time! Where have you been? Men are now feminists!! Are you in the dark ages dragging your wife around by her hair? Yes, you! White man in the wife beater drinking a beer...and dragging your poor wife by her hair! 

Quit the dumb shit and WAKE THE FUCK UP! 

Yup, didn’t see that one coming either 

That’s like me and telling stories. 

I. Just. Can’t. 

I don’t know why. I don’t know when it started. I just know that people never listened and I realized that I think too much. Like, WAY TOOOOO MUCH! So in trying to reach through the fog to remember details, my brain pieces together jigsaw puzzles from seventeen other occasions that have many common variables that are odd as fuck (to put it mildly). Because why not go ahead and just let me not be the amazing story-tellers that many chemically imbalanced people become. No, not MY destiny. I still write, but it isn’t the same as it once was, or was before that, or over my entire life-span. No, poetry will always be in my soul, but novels will never be published by me, plays never performed with my name attached as a writer, and certainly no tv series production being made any time soon - that’s somehow based on my boringly exciteable life -just no. 

I’m okay with never getting to finish a story, because it keeps me thinking when my mouth stops moving, after you’ve all stopped listening. My brain is always on. It likes to try and remind me often that it controls all of me. 

I remind my Brain often, that it’s my bitch, and I could medicate it into oblivion if I wanted to, with legal pharmaceuticals. I could figuratively cut off that appendage, and have it ‘grow back’ (different) from going back off of psychiatric medication for the major contradictory symptoms. 

But, my brain knows I don’t have mental health insurance coverage. So it beats me up with facts while I retaliate with hope and a Warrior spirit. 

And that has been 20 minutes of me making this post. Corrections are minimal for full impact. Tear it up, y’all

Much love, 

Your travel guide down this amazing rabbit hole of a life,

AdorkableHarleyFairy