Jul. 11th, 2017

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It's my birthday today. A fresh 36 years old. And I fucking LOVE it. My birthday is the one day out of the hair that I give myself to be happy the whole day, if nothing else because I beat that bastard with the scythe one more race around the Earth.

Tick, tock, the clock is always counting down. And riding out one more twist of the second hand feels amazing.

And nothing feels as good as cheating Death. Especially the last year. The deal I signed with the Devil erases itself one more time.

Didn't think I'd make it this far. Hell, I'd didn't think I'd make it past thiry. And there's no saying a wayward semi-truck will go off roading, ending this day with me being smashed road hamburger along a concrete divider lining the road.

But goddamnit, I made it 36 years, body and mind still functional. A heart that finds new walls to smash through, a heart that always seems to find just one more person to take residence in.

That's a hell of a goal and I'm damned proud of it.
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Call it the crazy, not feminism in the song. "Now you Know" - Icon For Hire

"So tell me, what's a woman to do? No, scratch that
Tell me what's a human being to with the fact that
What gets us ahead just holds us back more!
- Icon For Hire "Now you Know"

Cuz if I'm rational, I know that's exactly what the Crazy does. It gives me an advantage above all the FB'rs, lets me sail higher than the average journaler who talks about their days cooking and shopping. It sure as hell sends me above the Youtubers who "unbox" and the intensity shoots me ahead into the stratosphere. It is my gift.

I can make you feel what make I feel. I can make you feel like YOU feel like. That's my power. I can lure you with my words and keep you caught, keep you watching for years. I know this is my gift, my power, and I could not have it have without The Crazy.

It also holds me back, the weeks when I cannot write at all or write about the mundane. The weeks that I'm stuck in padded rooms, no access to the public and their view. The days when the crazy pours out without the pretty, just insanity and babble. When the gift is lost in the endless pouring of insanity without closure.

What's the balance here? Where's the place where I can have the two meet? The intensity and the beauty without the mess that makes it unreadable from any sane perspective.

"The if the truth ain't pretty,
will you love me, love me, ugly.
" Cuz some of this ain't pretty. It's flat out hideous. Oh, maybe the words paint a picture worth giving a glance, but the colors and forms make it hard to stare at it without a sliding glance.

I make them just as uncomfortable as I do relatable. On purpose sometimes. Make you feel something just as I am feeling something. That's what whole this point of sharing this do, a feedback loop between me and you.

I've got a gift with chains and sometimes I can use it to bitchsmack the words and the people reading it. Other times the only thing it does is wrap me in shiny silver links.

What am I supposed to be about?


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