So it's this funny
thing. I was doing some spring cleaning on account of the fact that I am
marrying and moving in with the man of my dreams and I came across my journals.
Maybe 5 or 7 of them, written between
the ages of 18-24, and I remembered. I used to LOVE writing. Enough to fill a
billion journals, enough to write flouncy little blog posts like 2-3 times a
week. It helped me clear my head and make sense of my life and choose which
stories I wanted to be big and which ones I wanted to be small even though all
I did was interact with a stranger at the grocery store.
But I also live in
Utah, and have maybe 5 friends here, and I feel like I lost a part of myself by
not writing to process it all. Not that I think I have this great talent, but
it feels oddly vindicating to put my schtuffs into the world. There's this satisfaction
that the world doesn't spit it back out like a dollar bill that's too crumpled.
(Sidenote: having 5 friends in Utah is probably 75% by choice).
But, another also -
if I'm going to do this, I'm gonna all the way do this. I'm going to tell
people about the blog and talk about Angel and my spirituality and post a
billion selfies and pretend everyone thinks I'm cool. Because maybe that's what
I have in my soul. And I know it's not 2008 and no one cares about blogs
anymore and selfies are the currency of the Kardashian family, but you know
what? Team Khloe forever. (Slash, idk, I've never watched more than 4 minutes
of that show at once, but I am the Khloe of my family).
But also (and I'm
pretty sure this is my last also), I found my retainer when I was spring
cleaning, and it had been missing since I moved to Utah , but it still kinda
fit and so I'm wearing it all the time so that I lose the gap between my two
front teeth before the wedding and my mouth hurts pretty bad.
But that's kind of
what you expected all along, right?
