I Know the Universe, and Her Name is Irony

I understand that, as an artist, having honest, open, and fully real life experiences is essential to developing the muscle of expression. I get it. I'm still a baby, I'm working on it.

I understand that, as a human, emotional blogging is a pain in the ass and nobody gives two shits about my bad days or what I had for lunch or whether my face hurts today or whatever. I'm working on it.

I also understand that, in the effort to share my artistic journey, there are going to be awkward combinations of the two above situations. Unfortunately, more often than not. My regurgitating of information simply becomes whining about lack of work ethic or how singing is hard with a sore throat or how I suck at dancing.

So, if that isn't what you hoped for when you got into this, I'm sorry, because it wasn't what I anticipated either. I imagined repeating lessons for you, sharing what I'm learning.

But I guess sharing what I'm learning is more about dragging you along the journey through myself, since that's what art is. And I do this for art.

So discover yourself through my discovering of myself. See how bad I fuck up and know that it happens and is supposed to happen. I'm a freaking hypocrite and complain about how hard it all is and fuss fuss fuss and my feet hurt and I wish people were nicer, but I'm giving you life advice I wish someone would give me and I could actually listen to.

And all of this is coming from one unexpected text yesterday and one slightly expected realization tonight. Unrelated, but, as usual, a murky fork in the road.

Why do good things happen to me in a way that makes it hurt? Why is there always a crossroads, a confusing, unclear, grey area I can't step through without hurting myself or someone else?

UNIVERSE. MAKE UP YOUR MIND. Cuz I did. AND IT'S ART.