I spent a lot of today discussing with myself and sometimes others how I feel about not truly journaling as I would in private. I do not for a multitude of reasons. The most important being to protect others. Nothing about it being to protect myself. In fact, it feels like it is causing me harm to not just take off the restraints I placed on myself. It feels like I am a liar. I struggle with that often in life. I have a hard time understanding that just because I don't say certain things that are on my mind or part of my life, it does not mean that I am fake. I cannot stand the idea of being a fake person. I also get irritated with people who are self-proclaimed “shit shows” and “hot mess expresses” even though I am certain I have referenced myself to the front row you wanna be in kinda shit show. I do not call myself a hot mess, though I am certain the guys who rode past me on their bike as I was on all fours in the woods trying to get Chip would claim otherwise. Toe bandaged, hair a mess, covered in leaves, whats left of my ass attempting to form some heavenly peak and a shirt that read, “take a hike”. Yeah, I bought it. I don't wear t-shirts and I certainly do not wear novelty clothing…however, the shirt was muted enough in color, and I was going through something with someone at the time and I wanted to wear that shirt to subtly remind them to fuck off while reminding myself I needed to get some fresh air as well. Two birds, one stone. I too told them to go fuck themselves, but the shirt just let my mouth rest. And clearly we know that little baby needs some shut eye. Anyway. I am not going to start saying the things I don't say in this journal. If the bird chooses not to say something, you know it must be of value. Value I would like to take to my deathbed. Or whatever and wherever I die. People trust me. I trust people. And there are things some would not understand. Things that are beautiful to me and would only be seen as ugly and tainted by others. It is amazing how we all can stand in the same place and later report seeing different worlds. I like that different world. I have some of my most treasured life experiences in that world. And there is a small group of people who have lived in that world with me and always will. I love you. I think it is really easy to summarize ourselves up and present it to people. And equally just as easy for people to nod their heads as if they know you and agree. While some actually may, I think most of the time we absolutely miss the mark on who we are. We say the normal things or some people say what is trendy and nothing of value...which is a shame because we all have value. “I am a boy mom, hot mess express just living my best life, enjoying my Starbucks trips and all the things in this shit show I call, life.” Okkkkk. Please, please, please do not get me started on this whole new “all the things.” I know I am going to piss some people off with that because well, obviously you say it. But it makes me cringe and I am sure there is a list of things I say and do that make you cringe so we good, I love you and you can always tell me how you feel. My point was, it is easy for us to portray who we are in a self-serving manner sprinkled with some self-deprecation because thats cute and not cautionary. It is also easy to portray ourselves in the way we want to be seen. But in this world I have lived in with few others in my life, we saw each other for exactly who we are and I did not fear harm to anything in my life as a result. I wish we could live like this with everyone. I do not live a glamorous life, I do not walk around with feathers on and makeup and beautiful clothes all the time. I get extremely grumpy and frustrated and I can be bitchy and defiant. I talk shit. I question things until I can confidently erase the question mark. And many people would say, they do not like me and I would understand why. You get from me whatever the experience we have brings about and that is true about everyone. Well everyone except for the Sarah's and Brad’s. They just suck and they stuck sucking. Awww, Brad I think I just found you a girlfriend. 

Once I was so infuriating to someone they threw a burrito across the room at my head. And he had a lot of salsa options too. Fucking dude didn't even know what kind of salsa he liked best. How the hell I thought he would know if he loved me or not, I have no idea. But that burrito flew and it still makes me laugh to this day. I heard it whistling across the room, foil wrapper was off so what was inside of it was slowly flying out and scattering leaving a mess in its wake and all to the tune of “Code Monkey” by Jonathan Coulton. I was really getting into the beat of the song in my head and realized as the salsa crashed and splattered around me that Code Monkey did not in fact like me the slightest. He finished the night by flipping the queen mattress off of the boxspring (Code Monkey-Cave Man) and telling me he hoped I would just die in a car accident one day. Dayummmmm Code Monkey, I just may, but you are going to have to calm down and wait to see if your hope comes true. And as my grandpa used to say, “hope in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up quicker.” Code Monkey-Cave Man would probably throw his poo at me though. Aw, so bummed little Code Monkey was post Christmas sweater competition he would have been a fun addition. I could not be myself with Code Monkey and Code Monkey could not be himself with me. Code Monkey throw burrito. Code Monkey girlfriend cleaned it up. Code Monkey girlfriend also laugh cause duh Code Monkey girlfriend ridiculous and infuriating. This make Code Monkey very mad. Code Monkey went bye bye. I started to really get into Code Monkey Cave Man talk there. Bitmoji shortly thereafter made a Bitmoji of a big ass burrito in hand. I used that Bitmoji way too often, I just want to say thank you to them for getting on my burrito train. There now is also a game called something about throwing burritos. Hang on. I wont sleep if I don't “Goog” (that make you cringe?) it…well it is called Throw Throw Burrito and it looks like there are two big fuckers in the box and I got sweaty and ready to Kill Bill it. Just a little bob and weave motion. I have done it a few times in memory as I wrote this. So subtle and life saving. He prepared me to be ready for whatever life throws at me. Thank you, Code Monkey. And now I am listening to The Flying Burrito Brothers (weird he has a brother too) on Spotify because that too was a search result and now I am reimagining how funny the story would be if this is what the moment had actually played to. Big letters on the TV,  X, Y, Z by “The Flying Burrito Brothers” and simultaneously here comes one at my head. That is what we call kismet. Our relationship was not. These are the people who are not in my private world. These are the people I did not understand and who definitely did not understand me. These are the people who would say, yeah she was awful and I would say, uh huh, I was, I am, I hope you are well and goodbye to. Goodbye unless you ever need something. Because I will still fucking be there. I am like that with everyone. I always think if I saw them on the side of the road or whatever what would I do. And honestly I wouldn’t throw a burrito at him and laugh. I would pull over and offer to help. That does not make a good person and it doesn’t mean if you knew me you would see a person who matched the saint like behavior it sounds like. It likely means I have issues and need boundaries and see them as walls just waiting to be conquered and healed. Poor little Code Monkey, hungry and cold and needs help. I would help and I would feed him a burrito just to make it all full circle and to be able to laugh about it now together and then I would believe we fulfilled the purpose of all that nonsense/shit show. I knew I said it more than I thought! I think I actually say shit show quite a lot. Hot Mess Express, no. All the things, no. His mom also called me a year later and left me a lovely voicemail telling me that I was not “all that and a bag of chips,” what is it with these people and food. Ew. I was however worth wasting a $10 burrito on, Donna and apparently a drunk phone call (or 20) for you, so I know y'all love me. Stop playing. I miss you too-ish. 

Part of my death bed/field/car (if Code Monkeys wishes come true) peace will be that I was in fact truly loved in life and that I did in fact love. Purely. Unconditionally. Raw. Not raw dog, just raw. I mean, thats a lie, but also need to keep my brain out of that lane because once I get going, I is going going gone. I fly faster than a burrito and all of my shit will fly out too. Nothing stays in place anymore. I remember once talking about my body and its changes and realizing that celebrity baby names were starting to sound like a description of where something goes when I jump, lie down, look down, turn around or…you guessed it, pick a bale of cotton. Fuck. I had to. The outside of us may be important and needs to be cared for and loved and nurtured and respected and covered in salsa and sour cream on the rare Throw Throw Burrito game night, but it really goes away quick. It changes seemingly overnight and you better hope you like who you are inside and that the people in your world know who that person is and loves it. I think the scars on my body can be tender, I fucking love scars by the way. I will ask anyone where they got a scar from. This cool as hell old dude on the beach one time had a gnarly chunk of his abdomen missing and then also a piece of his back. I asked what happened, faces changed like I was a dick, because apparently its cool to just stare instead of make it normal and discuss. I mean to be fair he asked me to play fetch with his dog because he was tired. And I did. So the man stood there with his round sunglasses, long thick toenails, beautiful gray hair, leathered skin, pacemaker and salty stubble on his face, bit down on his cigar, and told me about his time serving in Vietnam. How it disconnected him from life and how he got the inside of him blown out from front to back, and hours more of how his life went after it almost ended. I asked if I could feel the scars. I placed my hands on them and his body was tense and embarrassed and I sent every thought I had about him into my fingers and I just held his scars like they had not healed, because they hadn’t. We cried, I hugged him and he was sweaty and sandy and I did not even care. If you knew how much I hate sweat you would know I fell in love with this mans soul that day on the beach. The man offered me some weed and talked about everything you could imagine. He and I still text to this day. I text him on his birthday, when I hear his favorite song and also on holidays to remind him he is not alone and to remind him he made an impact on my life. Yes, I also asked him what his favorite song was and when his birthday was because those things make us who we are too, albeit in much less significant ways, but still…ugh I am all teary eyed thinking about how perfect that day was. We all have so much pain, even those without the scars on their skin. Ok, back to my body, I think the lines on my face will be forgiven. I think my knees hurt so fucking bad because of the skin that fell and now lays on them adding weight, so fuck that. And I think my hips sinking inward creating a hollow will not cause the right eye to bat once. I prioritize this inside world I mentioned. The private one. The one that brings me so much joy and love. The one that I often struggle with finding a place amongst the ground beneath my feet to live in. At what point does that world become embraced or is this a place we carry inside in private until our last moment. That was not a question because that is what I am working on myself. If I put the question mark, it begins to feel heavy and pressured and daunting. When this private place does not create any of those feelings at all. So I want to let it breathe and be what it is…but inside of me and in my mind all the way until my passing moment comes? The moment my body seemingly no longer inspires people to name their kids Blue Ivy and North West, when no one will throw a burrito at it or find it enduring to refer to the life that inhabits it as a hot mess. Maybe a shit show still because one time one of my dads employees kind of died for a moment and when he did he pooped his pants and it ran down into his boots and since he lived my dad told me the story with tears of laughter mere moments after it happened. So if I die like that guys body tried to, I give you permission to call me a shit show in my passing and to laugh about it. But if I end up coming back like he did, don't tell Code Monkey because I don't know how much longer he can wait and I hate to disappoint the hopes people have involving me.