I am not a perfect person. I am flawed, deeply at best, but on the surface I am holding things together pretty fine. I have learned to love these flaws and mistakes. It is what makes me, well, unique as horribly cliche as that sounds. But, here is an homage to me.
I forget to turn my phone on, I make cheesy jokes, I flirt horribly and obviously. I spill things on myself, I snort when I laugh. I make movie references that only my mom understands most of the time. I have bad taste in music and would rather stay in any night of the week. I have a temper, but I love fiercely and passionately. I worry, but it is only because I care too damn much. I micromanage, but that is a horrible side effect of thinking hyper-effectively. I bite my nails and dream far out of my reach. But, I’m real. I have stopped pretending to be who I am not and slowly slipped into my own skin. You cannot force comfort.
But this is me. I’m 22, single, moving 550 miles away from home in two weeks. I just broke up with the only person I could ever have seen myself marrying and I am falling desperately in love with every passing glance from a stranger. I am too caring for my own damn good, and this is the time in my life to DO and act for myself.
I am appreciative of the time that I have, be it spent sleeping, reading, wasted (not drunkenly, but that doesn’t hurt either) or out exploring and being spontaneous. I need to let go of the little things. I imagine the little worries in life as splinters. If you try and hold onto a sharp sliver of wood, it will pierce your skin and slip into layers it never knew existed and become embedded in you; you can pick at it and get most of it out but the harder you hold onto it, the deeper it gets. It will become infected and cause you more pain than it is worth.