"Even My Ex Reads Your Blog"

I have to be honest when I say I don't think of myself as a writer. 

Writers read a lot and wear glasses and follow grammatical rules and have symbolism and euphemism and nuance. 

I fucking ramble. 

I like to make periods where there should be commas. 

I rant for the sake of not going insane. 

It used to be that the only people who read my blog were my mother and my three friends. 

But that was cool because I never wanted to "Gain. An. Audience" the way I tried with my YouTube videos.

I just write to write I fucking love to write. 

And I really never expect anyone other than my mother and my six friends (I have six friends now) to give a fuck about what I have to say and then come to find out people who've fucked my friends are reading my blog. 

This blog is famous. 

Ok, not really. 

I mean sort of. 

Fuck it.

IT IS.

People I've never met read this. 

People who fuck who I've never fucked read it. 

I don't know why. 

Mostly because I feel so scattered and chaotic I'm not sure it could make sense to anyone who doesn't know me. 

But a month ago a guy wrote me on Instagram, Instagram, did you even realize you could send messages through a picture app? 

And he said, Hey I've been in Portland for almost two months, but I've been reading your blog before I came here, in Chile, and I think is great, I really enjoy the way you write. 

And wow, fucking wow, another country? 

That is amazing. 

That's how I ended up seeing Spain. 

A random connection because of Instagram. 

And last week, after trying so hard to stop being lost in the loss festering in my mind, self pitying, foolishly obsessed obsessing, I woke up to this.

Hiya. I have been toying with the idea of messaging you for a while but I never knew what to say since I'm, you know, a stranger. But we have a weird connection---but I don't know if I should bring it up. Well I guess I just did. I dunno, this is probably so weird. I've just had some wine and am feeling brave and bold. So I am going to die under a rock after I hit send--But I think you're amazing based off of your videos (which I miss), writing, and photos. Your confidence is contagious 😊

And wow, fucking wow, really?

My wounded little spirit soured. 

And I wanted to hug her, this stranger who saw me. 

And delighted in what she saw. 

And it's connecting, words, expression, words aren't dead, fucking liar to make me question my own art, to acknowledge his own constant deceit, his words are dead. 

My words breathe life. 

They're fucking real and genuine and no one can ever take that. 

This shit is mine. 

And I knew my friends girlfriend didn't like me. 

It's probably because I used to text you so much, huh?

No, that's not why. She read your blog.

What??! What do you mean she read my blog I'm not even friends with you on any social media. How did she even find it?

And you know who else "found" my blog?

Kai's wife. 

Holy fucking shit was my life just repeating itself??

Do you read my blog??

Well, I read that one, because I was curious. 

Fuck fucking fuck. 

Curious. 

People I know and don't know are curious. 

And of what?

I don't even know what I'm saying.

Does anybody realize that?

I'm just as fucked up and lost as you are. 

Maybe more. 

And then there was her. 

The girl who dated my best friend, who was such a fucking cunt to her.

So all those months ago, out of love for my friend, I wrote how she could just fuck off. 

And my friend didn't even read the blog. 

My fucking best friend I wrote the blog for to defend her fucking honor never even knew I wrote it. 

And months later it somehow came up. 

And she read it then. 

And time passes, and people still watch you, voyeuristic fucks. 

And she got a letter from her ex, a letter from the hateful cow.

Who. Mentioned. My. Blog. 

This was cute, she wrote. 

No way. 

No fucking way. 

SHE?

She reads my blog??

And you know this fucking blog, this stupid inconsistent, chaotic diary of pain and hope and fucking disarray, is the reason, this was the catalyst, that made me ultimately lose Kai. 

And when I was fucking Matthew I was scared of writing because I was scared of losing him too. 

But I did. 

I lost them all. 

That's what I do. 

I love. 

And I drive away. 

And I don't know why I love so much. 

I don't know why I'm so fucking intense. 

I don't know why I can't just shut the fuck up. 

Just breathe. 

Namaste that shit. 

Because I have to. 

I have to get it out. 

I have to write the truth. 

It has to exist. 

Or I can never let it go. 

Any of it. 

And maybe that's what this is. 

Maybe I have to say what you fucked up beautiful souls need to hear or need to hear me say because you scream it into your pillow when the lights are out and everyone in your phone has forgotten about you. 

And maybe being too much isn't a bad thing. 

Maybe being discussed, being fucking google searched until people stumble across these words, these stream of consciousness thoughts, as I sit here and type away, unaware of the next word that will appear. 

Because writing helps me discover my truth. 

And the men I've loved have tried to silence me. 

But there's an entire cyber cosmos, that wants to hear what I have to say. 

And I want to tell you. 

I have to tell you. 

We can be fucked up and still be. 

It's ok. 

As we are. 

It's really all ok. 

Even when it's really fucking not. 

It's ok to not be ok. 

And to need someone to care enough to read this. 

Even if they never care enough to write their own truth. 

For you to read.