Pretty Fucking Good

I hit 4025 views in one day on ye olde blog. Best day to date. Kinda.

I still wish we had a better word than blog. I call it ‘my website’ sometimes, but to me, that sounds like strippers calling themselves erotic entertainers. I am both a stripper and a blogger, which means I get naked, a lot. Prettying up the label doesn’t change what it is. I have a fake name here and there, but it’s still me, laid bare either way, hopefully with as much grace as I can muster.

So, the bulk of the hits were on a post called ‘Sex Gods & the Woman Who Fucks Them’.

Great fucking title, sadly attached to a mediocre post.

We all know I have a lot of sex. We all know mostly date beasts and other mythical, magical beings.

We all know I love my lovers in one way or another.

My monsters, my immortals. I don’t write this for them, except when I do.

But do WE all know? Who is this we I speak of? I have some faithful readers, I know this. Sometimes it scares me to hear someone say they have read everything I have written, some of these are really bad.

And therein lies my twinge of angst with the hits of yesterday.

Sex Gods is not a standalone article. I reference specific men without backstory, one would have to be a fairly faithful follower to know what the fuck I was on about.

And I am about to do it again, but just for a second.

The Poet said “It’s not a diary darling.”

I hate it when he isn’t wrong.

He read an article of mine in another lifetime and I felt the same sense of shame that I am experiencing now. Which is ‘why did it have to be that one, it’s not good enough.’

A lot of them are shit, I know this. There are 478 of the things, I really like 10.

But I leave them up. Even if they end up being full of lies and misconceptions.

The Poet himself, after 3 years of on and off infatuation and internet only contact, turned out to be a catfish. Like THE worst. So why leave up the accolades I wrote about him, singing his praises, pontificating about a future with someone who I came to find out is a fraud?

Because it happened.

And sorry dude, but this is kinda a diary. A time capsule that I can open at will and think ‘wow, I did actually feel that way’ or ‘that actually happened’, a graveyard where I tend to the bones of all my dead ideas of love and lovers that are dead to me, all 2 of them. The rest are ghosts on my Instagram or Facebook haunting me with the occasional like or cartoon heart. “Yes honey, I know you exist and for the most part your existence pleases me, when it isn’t vexing me.”

I am substantially less vexed than I have ever been. I think I am evolving. The same boy who vanished a couple years ago came back and went away again with little to no turmoil. I can compartmentalize experiences and people I meet as ‘that was good while it lasted’. Mostly.

Life is never total or absolute and I accept that as well.

It would be pretty boring if it was.

It is never going to be perfect either, we are children of nature and nothing in nature is perfect.

The best we can hope for is pretty fucking good.

And, some of these words I write are pretty fucking good. They can stand alone, the message is clear, my words well-chosen and flowing. Sometimes that flow lasts for the entire article. Rarely, but it happens.

When I was little I had a binder. It was ¾ the size of a regular binder, my size. I loved the thing. I loved it so much I would never write in it. You see, there was a limited amount of ¾ sized paper to go in it. And I was scared to ‘waste’ it with something that wasn’t perfect. I won awards in public school for my handwriting, it was always between me and another girl for 1^st and 2^nd.  Doesn’t get much better than that, yet I hesitated.

I still do.

Which lends itself to the same way of thinking that has me saving my ‘good’ clothes for something special and then they never get worn.

So 4025 people read the blog yesterday. 1095 people read an article I am not overly proud of.

It can’t be helped, it’s done now.

Some of my better/more praised articles are the ones where I show all of my guts and mess, where I am mid breakdown and I just let everything out in a gush of word puke. I have come to realize it makes other people feel better about being vulnerable.

And that is exactly what it is.

Vulnerability, when the perfect white dress is hanging in the closet, nothing bad happens to it, no wayward mustard stains it. When the page is blank, nothing can go wrong, no scribbled out words or trembling hands making a mess of my perfect penmanship.

I am beginning to accept that to be vulnerable is to live.

There is a girl I knew in public school who has taken to reading these things, and even typing those words now, accepting the reality of that fact is causing my stomach to clench. I haven’t yet shaken off the idea of being perfect. She asked me if I wanted her to stop. I said no, keep reading.

If I am to accept myself completely (and I really want to, I think deliverance and bliss are on the other side of that mountain)…I cannot pretend to be perfect. I am composed of all my flaws, typos, badly written prose, grass stained hemlines and bruised knees from falling down a lot. As well as the good moments when I am shiny, articulate and graceful.

All in all, pretty fucking good.