I love it when friends call me on my shit. Especially when the shit I’ve been meaning to talk about is fucking awesome. So when the subject of this story called me out on my very public (Facebook) post of , “you just know I’m gonna blog about this”, I was nudged, ever so lovingly, do to so.
It’s been a few days (fine, weeks) since this thing happened, but c’mon. When have I ever let time stop me from laying it on you? I’m writing a goddammed book about shit I lived through in the 80s and 90s, for fucks sake. What’s a handful of weeks, compared to the decades of soul-searching it’s taken me to find my balls, and actually write about it?
But this isn’t about my story. It’s not even related to me, except that it serves as a reminder and inspiration to stand up, walk the walk, and not take anyone’s shit. As much as the (recovering) narcissist in me would love this to be about me – it isn’t. It’s universal, so pull up a chair.
This has been swirling in my brain for a while, and as I was playing with my laptop keys, The World had other plans. There was a catastrophic hurricane affecting my friends (and millions of strangers), then a nail-biting presidential election that caused me to fall into a vortex of Twittergasms, not to mention inhale an entire box of Mac and Cheese. When that dust began to level, my birthday weekend quickly came, and I headed out-of-town. And on the actual day of my birthday, I learned my recent mammogram result was abnormal, so I had an ultrasound on Monday, and meet with the biopsy bitches today. Talk about a blog-buzzkill.
But fuck it. Today, before getting felt up, I’m making the time, and inducing this little fucker of a story. My posting contractions are less than a minute apart, and this baby is coming. “It’s a Blog” balloons are blanketing the Interweb as we speak.
Every now and then it happens. You witness something that reminds you of the person you want to be. Or maybe forgot you could be. Or are. The person inside yourself, who perhaps you knew as a kid, but somewhere