At first, I was going to get rid of the archives.
Seriously.
I was gonna toss every single entry like emotional trash, proverbial spring cleaning, if you will.
Because everytime I re-read them, and I do re-read them more than I will ever admit to anyone who isn’t a mental health professional, it’s like tearing open old sores with my fingernails, watching the tears I cried bubble up over the jagged skin not quite healed together prettily.
I’d be lying if I said I was over it all.
That I’d dealt with all of it appropriately or totally.
But then I thought, they’re my scars. They’re my stories.
They belong.
So forgive me if I don’t regale you with tales of my day or the books I’m reading or the joys of cheese stuffed chicken. If that’s what you’re looking for, this is not the place for you.
And if you’d like to judge me for my content…
Fuck you.
And welcome.
Liquor, Loans & Love 
When June 18th happened…I was going to delete all my archives…matter of fact, I was going to just cut and run and resurface as someone new…re-invent or better yet…be the me I was before the two years I just had…budda, I was good being me even when being me meant going through some extra unnecessary bullshit.
Do what you have to do tomake shit liveable…but if you delte from the net…at least paste and copy into a file so you do have it to see where you have come from.
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I mean, you do what you have to…..but….straight up, I'd CRY, wait, I'd BAWL, if you got rid of your archives.
Not only because of the beautiful writing ( cause you have a way with the pen that I have seen VERY FEW OTHERS possess) but also because of the lessons that you were kind enough to share.
Of course, you can ignore my selfish reasons as you choose, but um….yea.
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Oh my…
*blank stare*
I ain't complaining. You do you. Carry on, man.
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