Wednesday, March 26, 2014

I Can Take Care of Myself...But Sometimes I Don't Want To

I hate cleaning.

Hate it. I hate it so much that every 3 months, I get a new apartment to avoid having to do any real cleaning. You all think that I keep moving because of work or because of apartment floods or because of shitty management, but no...I move this often because I prefer packing, unpacking, and organizing, to scrubbing toilets or removing hair from the shower drain.

The thing about me and cleaning is, I have a legit case of OCD, thanks to my dad and his genetic makeup. So while all of the tips out there are like, telling me to clean 15 minutes a day to always have a clean house, that shit just does not work for me. I'm an all or nothing type lady. If I start to clean, I can't sit, sleep, eat, or pee until I'm done. So for me, a deep clean really does take an entire day...there's laundry, bathrooms, vacuuming cat hair...and then because of how weird I am, there is also organizing the closet, alphabetizing soup cans in the pantry, and rearranging my living room furniture.

I try to be fairly responsible with my money now that I'm old, and I try to make better financial choices. I know that I need to keep contributing to a 401k, whatever that is, and I make sure I have some emergency savings money before I pay for another tattoo. But there are some things that are worth every penny. And for me, that is a house cleaner.

I'll wait for all you judgy bitches to shut up.


Ok. Yes I said it. I believe that paying someone to clean my house is worth it. And by house, I do mean apartment. Small apartment. That I live alone in. I don't care. I know it's all my mess, and all my dust, and I know that all the hair on the bathroom floor came out of my head (in other news, how I am not bald with all of that falling out of my head, I will never know). I don't care. I simply don't have time to do it myself.

762 square feet is a lot of dusting. It's a lot of vacuuming. It's a lot of work that I have no desire to do. Scrub baseboards? No! Dust windowsills? Nah, I'm good.

I have been told that I have no idea what I am talking about because I live in a teeny place, all alone, with no husband and no kids, and no muddy-pawed dog to clean up after. And that's true. I don't have those things. But I do have a cat that sheds almost as much as I do. And I do have a full time, demanding job that often exhausts me more emotionally than anything else. And really, more than anything else, I just don't think anyone should spend an entire day doing anything that they hate as much as I hate to deep clean.

Truth be told, I want nothing to do with cleaning. I don't mind doing my own laundry, and I will organize the shit out of any closet ever, but when it comes to a deep clean, I am just not interested. BUT, I want a clean apartment. I don't like Juno fur collecting in corners or toothpaste in the sink. But I also don't hate it enough to scrub it on the weekend. The weekend is my time, and on my time, I don't clean up messes. I clean up messes 40-50 hours a week; it's what I get paid to do, clean up after people who can't take care of their own lives.

And so, a house cleaner for $20 an hour once a month. WORTH IT.

I may not get my hair cut and colored on a regular basis because I don't have fifty bucks, and I may not get my toes done as often as I'd like...but now that I've found someone I trust to do good work and not steal from me, you better believe this will be my splurge.

So when you come visit me, please know two things: One, I organized my own book shelf, by height, thickness, genre, and alphabetical order by author. And Two, I didn't dust that shit myself. 

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Is That a Gun in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Happy to See Me??

It's been a little while since I have posted a legit, over the top rant about something that seriously pisses me off.

Well, put on your seat belts, cause I am on one tonight!

Today I saw on the news that some local public schools are banning leggings from their dress codes for female students because "they are distracting to our male students." Aca scuse me?!? What?? Since when is it MY fucking responsibility to dress in a way that keeps a boy's tongue in his mouth instead of hanging out of his head like a drooling, horny dog?!?

Oh. Since fucking ALWAYS!

I forgot for a moment that as a woman, I am solely responsible for any penis in a 5 mile radius. They cannot be trusted with the boy they are attached to, of course. How fucking insulting!! Insulting to women that we are expected to monitor our looks or our actions, and insulting to men to imply that they cannot be trusted to keep their own dick in their pants at the sight of a lady in *gasp* leggings!

When a woman is assaulted, someone always asks what she was wearing. Or what she was drinking. Or what she was doing out at night by herself. When a woman is attacked, someone always asks what she could have done to protect herself - what mace she should have been toting in her bag, or what self defense tool it was too bad she didn't know.

No one ever stands up and says, guess what, world, it is NOT my responsibility to carry a gun to ward off horny douchebags who think they have some animalistic right to my vagina! It doesn't matter what I am wearing or if I had 5 drinks instead of 3, or if I think I should be able to walk back to my own dorm room after a party. Why the FUCK are we not focused on raising MEN who don't think they have a right to attack some innocent woman because she was "distracting" in a pair of tight pants.

Fuck that.

The most appalling part of the whole new story was, as always, the comments under the article talking about how it's unfair for girls to wear tight pants and expect to not receive that kind of attention, that these girls need to pay attention to what they are offering to these poor boys by dressing like that...and these comments were from women!! MOMS! Umm...someone immediately remove the daughters (and sons, for that matter) from these ignorant, archaic ass holes. You have got to be kidding me, lady - I can't wear leggings to school (or work, in my case) because some idiot can't control his hard on? Give me a break.

Perhaps we could address the sexism that exists in dress codes as a whole. Did you know that I work for a company that requires at least a 2 inch heel on all women's shoes but does not require that men wear a tie? Sexist as fuck. If I have to wear uncomfortable shoes because they look professional (and by professional, I do of course mean that they make my legs look sexier), then the least you could do is throw us a bone and make these boys put something awkward around their neck. But no. Can't do that.

Male dress code: Pants. Shirt. Shoes. And deodorant.
Female dress code: See pages 2-17.

The same goes for schools, because we have to get on the sexism train as early as possible. When I was in high school, we weren't allowed to wear tank tops. Because, you know, a 16 year old boy simply cannot keep his penis to himself with my shoulders hanging out all over the place like that. The poor boys are just simply so distracted.

Never mind the sagging thing, though, where the boys get to drop their jeans to their knees. Because that doesn't turn us ladies on (I mean, really it doesn't, because face it guys, you look stupid as fuck like that). Point being, I wasn't allowed to have my shoulders exposed on a hot day, but my male counterpart was allowed to let his balls hang out of the belt loops of his jeans should he so choose.

I went to a Catholic school though, so they probably just assumed that us ladies didn't get horny. Ever. Until we were married. And then only when we wanted to lay in missionary position to create life.


But I digress.

If I want to wear leggings, I am going to wear leggings. You morons and your leggings aren't pants campaign need to shut up and buy a bigger size. Leggings are pants. They have a waistband and 2 leg holes and a crotch and room for your ass. That is literally the definition of pants. If you can see through the fabric in the ass, it is not because they are not pants; it's because they're too small. Kinda like when your side boob is popping out of your bikini top? That doesn't mean it's not a swim suit - it means your tits need a bigger size. Same shit, different body part.

For the record, the more shit I read on the news about schools and dress code and bull shit about how girls are ruining the lives of boys everywhere by dressing like whores and then not welcoming a physical or sexual assault, the happier I am to not have to raise a child. I mean, how could I put this blog into a G-rated version suitable for my own son or daughter? Dear son, please don't ever attack a woman at a party and then blame it on her yoga pants or the tequila shot you saw her take at the beer pong table. And darling daughter, please feel free to wear whatever the fuck you want whenever the fuck you want, and take a guy's dick off with your stiletto if he comes at you.

Parent of the year award goes to *drum roll* ME!

In all reality, we live in a sexist world where women are held responsible for anything that happens to us. If I get raped outside a bar, someone on the news report will inevitably question why I was wearing something so low cut? To that I say, listen bitch, I wore that because it's what I like. It's what looks good on me. It's what I choose to wear. I did not at any point approach some horn dog and request to be fondled against my will. If one of my friends is assaulted by someone, some news report will question how drunk she was and what she was doing out so late. Guess what, my friends can stay out as late as they damn well please. I'm not a victim, and I'm not friends with victims.

The reality is, until enough women stand up and refuse to take on the responsibility for the disgusting slime balls out there, and refuse to let other ignorant women blame our yoga pants and bikinis for the shit that happens to us, nothing will change. Where are we at on that, ladies? Are you really gonna let some uptight, horny high school principal who can't get laid on his own tell you that your daughter can't come to school in leggings and "distract" the boys? Are you prepared for that same principal to tell you that your daughter shouldn't have been out by herself after that movie if she didn't want a guy to approach her in the dark? I wouldn't be. Bitches please, that administrator is lucky I'm not the parent walking into his office to talk about this new dress code. I'd be the mom staging the yoga pant sit-in with every girl in school. Bare those beautiful butt cheeks, ladies!!

And just think, my life goal for 2014 is to own a gun before Christmas! Yea I'm wearing yoga pants...and yes sir that sure is a can see it because my pants are too tight, just how I like them. Back the fuck off...I said no.

It's Either a Big Tattoo, or You Got Attacked by a Shark

It is no secret that I love tattoos. Tattoos have a way of making people more attractive. Or at least to me they do. I just love them. I love getting them, looking at them, talking about them...and apparently, sitting and watching my girlfriend get one that takes 2 days and a total of almost 7 hours.

Because I have nothing else to do.

Not really. But really, because I enjoy the whole art of tattooing.

Tattoos are sexy. It's just the truth in my universe.

Rachel got a BIG tattoo this month. And I watched her get it. And it put the bees on my side, which I thought were pretty big, into the meh, kinda tiny, tattoo category. You can read about her painful experience, right here.


We thought it would be kinda entertaining to share my experience of her giant tattoo, so here goes...

Day One: We arrived to do line work and shading, and we had everything we needed to stay distracted for up to 3 hours. Water, gum, and the internet. Seems simple enough. I sat and chatted with Rachel and Travis, the ah-mazing tattoo artist at Tron City Tattoo, about music and movies. I knew that Rachel would want to relive this painful experience, so I snapped several photos of her - without telling her, of course - as the process went on. At some point about 2 and a half hours in, I just stopped talking, because neither of them was up to keep talking. Rachel was clenching her teeth, and was clearly still lying there based solely on sheer willpower. And Travis was, well, it was 10pm, he was tired. It was hard to tell from my standpoint who was more done - she was certainly in more paint, but he was yawning and stretching a whole lot.

And me? I was just ready to get some dinner and get to bed. Three hours is a long time to sit still while your best friend's boobs are showing!

Day Two: We took a girl's day Saturday to get the color in the afternoon, followed by drinks and hanging out. This time was a little less than 3 hours of sitting. The shop was pretty empty, and I read aloud a lot of Buzzfeed before we got to the level of pain where I stopped talking and Rachel cried - I wasn't sure if she was crying because the tattoo hurt or because she was biting through her own hand flesh, but I can only assume it was tattoo related.

I should add that red tattoo ink will in fact make it look as though you are bleeding to death on the table. We did have some laughs about that, because Travis looked more like a surgeon with blood all over his gloves than anything.

All in all, watching someone get a tattoo did 2 things for me. One, it made me want to never get my hip bone tattooed. And two, it made me want to get everything but my hip bone tattooed.

That's the thing with tattoos. You can't have just one - they are addicting little things! 

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

You Just Don't Exist

To put it simply, you don't fucking matter to me in the slightest.
I think it's funny how much I still matter to you. 
I don't care about you anymore.
I never will care about you again.
You simply no longer exist to me.

Have I made myself clear?

Thursday, March 13, 2014

Be the Tornado, Not the Tree the Tornado Destroys

Why do women hate their bodies? And I don't mean, complain about needing to lose 10 pounds or whine about putting on a bikini at the start of the summer. I mean a genetically, deep-rooted hatred for our bodies. A true disdain when we look in the mirror, a legitimate inability to find anything beautiful about out naked selves. Women are taught to hate themselves from the outside, in.

It's true. When asked what my most attractive body part is, I don't know what to say. I get awkward and uncomfortable, and I feel like I am being asked a question in a foreign language that I cannot piece together the words for. I know that I wish I still had the body I had when I was in high school, which is unrealistic and self destructive, as no one should ever continue to look the way they did when they were teenagers. I know that I should be able to look at myself naked in a mirror and find something that I know looks good. I know what my girlfriends compliment me on or claim to be jealous of. I know what the guys I date (or sleep with) vocalize that they appreciate. I know what I should find attractive about myself.

But ask me what I like the least about my body, and I certainly have answers. Ridiculous ones. Ones that my logical brain cringes at, but that my inner raised-to-believe-we-are-all-ugly-and-fat brain sees as hard fact. Answers that make no sense based on reality, but make total sense with my perception of reality. What I see in the mirror is not what the rest of the world sees. And this sadly seems to be true for more women than not. And it's because women have an inner mean girl. My cousin expressed it perfectly when blogging about her inner mean girl; that inner voice we all have telling us we're several horrible forms of the word fat. What a bitch that inner mean girl is, right? Why does she continue to win, every time, with every woman?

Because of SHIT like this:

And SHIT like this:

And also this:

Look at the woman in the pink lingerie - look at the amount of fucked up photoshopping that went into that...her body doesn't even line up accurately for Christ sake!

Example: Thigh gap. A thigh gap is literally an unattainable trait. You cannot create what is simply not there. You cannot alter your bone structure, and your bone structure - not your weight - is the only thing that creates the thigh gap. And yet, here we are, feeling fat because we can't make it happen. And yet, here we are, with it photoshopped in our fucking face. Want to wear a Target bikini and look hot? You better take a hacksaw to your thighs. And apparently, to your vagina! What. The. Fuck. The girl in the jeans actually looks better in the image on the left, what the hell did we need to shave off half her middle for?

In a recent poll - taken among some of my most intoxicated girlfriends - I learned that most women would prefer to watch pornography involving women than men. Say what? It's true. Not because we are all secretly lesbians, but because women have more attractive bodies while naked. A woman's body is soft and pretty, while a man's is, well, not really. So, despite thinking we are disgusting fat slobs, we would still prefer to watch another woman naked than a man. Because a woman's body is sexier. Does this not seem to add up for anyone else? I'm confused. Don't get me wrong, I want to have sex with men, not women. But if I am looking at smut, which I don't often but occasionally do, I am more turned on by an attractive woman. And yet I can't point out one thing about my own body that I find sexy. Why is this?

Oh yea, because I was raised to hate myself.

Not by my mom, mind you. By the whole world. My mom was also raised to hate herself. Not by her mom, but by the whole world. It's sad. And it's wrong. And despite the seemingly impossible uphill battle, I see itty bitty glimpses of the vitally important change in my friends who are raising daughters. And the change has to start somewhere. Even though it's tiny steps, even though it's hard, even though it's near impossible to shield young girls from these media hyped images of sex and beauty and how you have to be skinny and look a certain way, and how in order to be a princess you have to bat your big round doe eyes...despite it all, I see my friends raising strong, brave, smart daughters, not meek, timid ones.

I have used my friend Ashley as an example more than once. Her daughter Bea is like a tornado. She rips through the house. She's loud. She can palm a basketball and she just learned to walk. She's feisty and tough - and they embrace it. No one is trying to quiet her down or pretty her up (not that she isn't beautiful, but you know what I mean). No one is trying to smother her gale force winds. Her mom and dad are just loving her, encouraging her, and being proud of all of her might. She's a tornado. And she should be proud to be a tornado her whole life. I hope she never hates who she is.

You can't complain about what you can change, unless you are willing to change it. Women need to stop bitching about being fat and stop talking about everything that is wrong with their bodies. What do you love about yourself when you're naked? There's something, you just don't see it because you're busy calling yourself hateful versions of horrible things. You're busy looking at cellulite and stretch marks and boobs that aren't quite the same size. You're sidetracked by your thighs touching and your large ass and your bony shoulders.

Stop hating who you are. There's nothing there to hate. Stop comparing your body to what you know is a computer generated image, and compare yourself to nothing else but yourself. And not your high school self either, that isn't fair. Stop worrying about the number on the scale, the size of your jeans, the numbers. Start focusing on what you love. You're a woman. You're beautiful. Women are beautiful and sexy, no matter the shape or size.

Make the change for all the baby girls who are bombarded with images of reasons they should hate themselves. Make the change for the teenage girls bombarded with images of reasons they are fat. Make the change for all the young women who are uncomfortable in their own skin because of the way the media tells them they should look. Make the change for you.

Be a tornado. Because you're too strong not to be.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

You're the Queen of Ass Holes

What is it about pushing a baby out of your vagina that makes you think you know everything?

Why do so many women think that after they have a baby, they are suddenly the expert on all things baby?

Guess what, ladies, you're not an expert! You don't know all there is to know on how to raise a baby The Right Way. You simply know all there is to know on how to raise YOUR baby The Right Way. That phrase, mama knows best? Yea, it applies to ALL mamas, not just you. Focus on your own crying, screaming, poop machine, and let everyone else do the same.

Nobody named you the Queen of Babies when you shoved that tiny human through your vag. So stop acting like it. It's annoying. And actually, it makes people hate you, and also hate your kids a little bit too.

Last night, I was met with the perfect example of two parents who respect each other's parenting styles, and it was a great reminder of why I only like some people and their kids, and why some people are not allowed to bring children to my house. Seriously. Some people's kids don't get invited to my house. And it's probably because they have a mother who likes to tell me what to do. I know I don't actually have a child, but I do know which way to hold it, even though there's no this end up sticker on it.

Sidebar: The same goes for babysitting, by the way. When I babysit for people, I expect them to understand that while I will keep their children safe, fed, and happy, I won't do everything the same way they do. I'm the fun aunt. If you don't want your kid to get to eat candy, don't ask me to babysit. If you don't want me to keep them up past bedtime or take them outside to stomp in mud puddles, or watch TV on the couch all day snuggling, ask someone else to watch your kid. We do things in my house the fun way and the easy way. Because I am not responsible for the future well being of your kid, I am only responsible for getting through the next few hours with a child that does not belong to me. Don't get your panties twisted about it.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. Opposing parental views playing out in my living room.

Rachel swears in front of her child. GASP, I know!! He's ten. He knows he is not allowed to swear. This is because when he was little, Rachel taught him the difference between grown up words and everybody words. I have never heard her son use a bad word, except the one day that he got to have "Dammit Day" where he was allowed to say dammit while we made Christmas cookies. And I could tell he never swears, because every time he said dammit, he giggled and started blushing. And sorta glanced at Rachel like he was about to get slapped. So even though Rachel swears in front of him, he knows he better not copycat her.

Bridgett gives her daughter a quarter every time she swears in front of her. Her daughter is six. Her daughter catches her saying bad words and demands a quarter as punishment, and surrenders a quarter when she says words she's not allowed to say. Also makes sense. I don't think her daughter has ever celebrated Dammit Day.

This came up last night while Rachel, Bridgett, and their respective children were at my apartment for dinner. Rachel said dammit in front of the kids, and Bridgett's daughter said she had to give her a quarter. Now, because my friends are both good moms, and because they are respectful, normal, functioning women who are not standing on a soap box, they laughed about it and moved on. I have friends who would have fought about who was right. I know women who would have actually been mad about this.

Mind your own business. Calm the fuck down. Guess what...your kids are going to be fine, but so are everyone else's. Stop judging the mom who swats their kid's butt in the grocery store, just like you wouldn't want to be judged for using a time out stool instead. Stop berating moms who don't breastfeed or who use disposable diapers; cloth diapers and breastfeeding are not always the best choice - especially for kids in day care. And if you use Huggies, don't talk about how gross cloth diapers are; it's not on your ass so don't worry about it. Stop being a bitch about working mothers. This is fucking 2014. People work. Even people without penises. And then, don't harp on stay at home moms either; not everyone chooses to work and go the day care route. It doesn't shouldn't matter to you - it's not your kid!

Stop trying to always be right. Everybody's different, and that's actually a good thing.

Friday, March 7, 2014

Stop Shitting on My Sunshine

I can no longer handle the amount of negativity around me. I can't. So for real, shut the fuck up.

I realize that starting a blog meant to be about being positive with the phrase, shut the fuck up, is ironic, but I don't care. I just want everyone in my life reading this post to know I am serious. I cannot handle anymore negativity in my life.

Fucking smile. I bet that will help. Take some vitamin D. Get a new tattoo or pierce something. Go tanning. Go on vacation. Have sex. Get a puppy. Or a goldfish. Come sit on my sofa and watch Juno hunt squirrels from this side of the patio's a fucking riot.

I don't care how you do it, but figure it out. Figure out a way to be positive. Figure out how to answer, "how are you" with a positive spin, or expect me to stop asking.

This might seem to be coming from a bit out of left field, but it has been building. The more I listen to people bitch about their lives, the more irritated I get with them, and the more I wonder why I am friends with them in the first place. Oh, nothing good has happened in your life at all, ever? I find that hard to believe. And the level of negativity pouring out of you is making me actually not even care.

It's like the boy who cried wolf. I am, and always have been, a shoulder to cry on for my friends when they have a bad day, when they get dumped or someone in their family is sick, or really when they are just PMS-ing or Hangry. I get it. I have those days. Hell, I have weeks like that. And that's not what I am talking about. Everyone has a bad day, and everyone is entitled to whine about it.


If every word out of your mouth, every time I talk to you, is a big pessimistic saga about how your life is the worst life that has ever happened in the history of's time for you to reevaluate your perspective. It is not that bad. Get over yourself.

This has been coming up more and more with coworkers. Shuuuuuut up. If you hate what you do, get a new job. For real. You are not good at this one anyway. Try something else. No one said you have to have this job for all eternity. Get a new one. Preferably one where you don't have to talk to anyone, ever.

I have friends with some seriously heavy life shit happening right now, and yet they still have days where they post online about the nice weather or the support they feel or the memories they have getting them through their bad days. My girlfriend's bright little star should be three months old this week; her Facebook post have all been about how much love and support she feels right now, how lucky she was to have him growing inside her, how grateful she is for even 5 weeks with her baby - most positive posts on Facebook in weeks, in spite of what could totally be breaking her. It blows my mind. One of my best friends ever has said nothing but positive, upbeat things about her family, her husband, her dog...despite the love of her life having been away from home for over a year, waiting on the government to figure things out. These are girls with some bad shit happening. And yet I see nothing but optimism surrounding them.

Stop complaining to me about things you could change if you weren't so lazy. Change it. Life is too short to be miserable. Your life is too short to be this negative. And my life is too short to get on your level. Man up. Make the changes you need to make. Or don't. If you wanna be miserable, go ahead. But I am no longer listening.

Every night when my mom logs off of Facebook she messages me, "be happy."

And I am. I don't know what your issue is. Maybe you need to get a new apartment or something.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

They're Valid Words, Even if Nobody Else Validates Them

Back in July of last year, when I decided to start writing a blog, I had no idea who would read it. I didn't know that people who are no longer in my life would crawl out of the woodwork to read it - friends, family, former coworkers, etc. And yet here I am, 8 months in to a blog that is updated at least 3 times a week (my goal is 4), with posts being read hundreds of times. I have seen my posts repinned over and over on Pinterest, and I have watched friends retweet them on Twitter. They've been shared on Facebook and from what I can tell, this little blog that started with 3 readers, now has quite the following.

I don't write this blog to impress people or to teach some valuable life lesson. I don't write things for other people, and I don't censor myself or monitor my content based on who is reading what I'm writing. It's my blog. I write it because I am a writer, and it's what I feel driven to do. I write this blog for myself.

Don't get me wrong, I love that people are reading it. Every time one of my posts gets shared on Facebook or Twitter, I feel like what I wrote in that post mattered to someone. And that's what I want. I want my writing to matter, I want it to be the reason someone laughs in the morning or the reason someone's mood changes. I love that my best friends read it, that my family reads it, that people I haven't seen in years read it. And I love that strangers read it. My writing is out there, it's being read and shared and valued, and that's all I have ever wanted.

I will never censor my writing to appease someone. If you don't like what I write about, by all means, don't read it. In the past 8 months I have written anything and everything, from why I am still single, to why I hate dogs, from why my Grandma's house will forever be home to me, to why I feel like a stranger to my own family. I've blogged about sex, about drinking, about romance and even about how to properly have phone sex. This is an open book for me, and I have never written a word I've been embarrassed about or regretful of. Because again, this is my blog, and I write it because as a writer, this is how I need to express myself.

This blog, and the content in it, is not about you. Not everything is about you. In fact, everything I have written in this blog since last July, has been about ME. I have processed through feelings about my family, through feelings about men and dating, through feelings about sex. I have worked through ways to establish boundaries, ways to find happiness, ways to eliminate negativity from my universe. This blog has been healing, therapeutic, and a voice for me. Me. Not you. Blogging actually started as a homework assignment from my therapist - my therapist cares about me, cares about my healing process, my progress. She doesn't care about you - "you" being the outside influences, not a person in particular. I have never been assigned homework to deal with someone else's crap. I have been assigned homework to deal with my own feelings about things that happen in my life.

I will never stop writing. Whether this blog continues to grow and become something bigger, or I write a novel or a series of children's books about Juno the Cat, or I write for a newspaper, I will always write. And I won't censor what I say. I won't damage the integrity of my written word to satisfy someone who has the power within themselves to close the page and choose not to read something. It's very simple - if my mom opens the page and sees that my post is about sex, she often closes the page and makes the choice to skip that one. If you open my blog and see that I have written about something you don't like, don't ask me to change it or delete it, because I won't. Don't ask me to edit my thoughts or alter my interpretation of my own feelings. Recognize that it is not about you, and don't read what you don't want to read. Close the page and make a choice to not read what's in front of you.

My words are mine, not yours; they are reflective of my thoughts and feelings, not yours. How you choose to handle that is your responsibility, not mine.