Jenny Lawson Broken Quotes

Forgive yourself. For being broken. For being you. For thinking those are things that you need forgiveness for.

Becoming your own friend means taking care of yourself the way you would someone that you love. And that’s hard. But it is necessary.

Only monsters call when they could text.

People without depression won’t understand that, but the fatigue of mental illness makes your very body a prison.

Be kind. Love each other. Fuck everything else.

I have struggled with anxiety for as long as I can remember. When I was young I thought it would pass as I got older, and when I was older I thought it would pass when I was successful, and when I was successful I thought that it was hopeless because even when everything was going right I was still wrong.

I know other people who are like me... They are brilliant and amazing and forever broken. I'm lucky that although Victor doesn't understand it, he tries to understand, telling me, "Relax. There's absolutely nothing to panic about." I smile gratefully at him and pretend that's all I needed to hear and that this is just a silly phase that will pass one day. I know there's nothing to panic about. And that's exactly what makes it so much worse.

Nothing lasts forever. The good and the bad.

I have managed to fuck shit up in shockingly, impressive ways and still be considered a fairly acceptable person.

My doctor nodded. “I think you’ll be fine no matter what,” he said. “You don’t let your pain go to waste.” It’s the strangest compliment I’ve ever been given. I hold it to my chest on dark days. I wear it as a shield when the fear creeps in … the fear of getting worse and the fear of getting better. I think this is what hope feels like.

I’m not sure what the difference is between sleeping and time travel.

We are broken. We are healing. It never ends. And, if you look at it in just the right light, it is beautiful.

Right now, as you read this, you are alone, you gorgeous solitary creature. But I am with you. We share this paragraph and these words, and even if you don’t agree with me you are listening and we have connected in small and large ways. And in that way we are not alone. We are together. And in a way that doesn’t even require you to put on pants.

I think many of us struggle with the thought that it’s okay to take care of ourselves, and it’s strange that it’s a struggle to treat ourselves as kindly as we treat the dog. The dog needs walks and healthy choices and water and play and sleep and naps and bacon and more naps. And love. I need that too. And so do you. It’s not just a gift we give to ourselves … it’s a duty.

It might be all in my head, but that’s where I keep all my crazy, so that makes sense.

Check your vagina. Does it look kind of broken? If so, you probably had a baby. Seriously, mine was all Franken-gina for a good year before it was presentable again.

LIFE IS LIKE RIDING A BICYCLE … It’s hard and sweaty and surprisingly tough on your genitals. Also, you’re going to fall a lot.

It’s weird because we often try to present our fake, shiny, happy selves to others and make sure we’re not wearing too-obvious pajamas at the grocery store, but really, who wants to see that level of fraud? No one. What we really want is to know we’re not alone in our terribleness. We want to appreciate the failure that makes us perfectly us and wonderfully relatable to every other person out there who is also pretending that they have their shit together and didn’t just eat that onion ring that fell on the floor. Human foibles are what make us us, and the art of mortification is what brings us all together.

Someone once told me that the difference between introverts and extroverts is that introverts recharge by being alone (like any normal person) and extroverts recharge by being with others (like vampires).

I know other people who are like me. They take the same drugs as me. They try all the therapies. They are brilliant and amazing and forever broken.

I’m not joking, but we still laugh because laughter is the best way to cover pain.

I didn't fail in responding to past treatments...those treatments failed to work for me.

Human foibles are what make us us, and the art of mortification is what brings us all together.

The world feels safer somehow if we share our pain. It becomes more manageable. And by sharing our pain, we inspire others to share theirs. We are so much less alone if we learn to wear our imperfections proudly, like tarnished jewelry that still shines just as brightly.

That’s the great thing about hanging out with bloggers. They already know that you’re broken, and most of them are, too, so they just nod and make you go take Xanax and go to bed. They’re very supportive. Also they probably wanted me to leave so they could talk about me.

You are killing me. You are shaming me. You are standing in the way of the health and happiness of so many of us. And you are making money while standing on our backs and telling us how much we don't need the things that keep us alive.

If one day I look at you and don’t remember who you are or how much you mean to me, know that your importance is still as real then as it is now. Know that you are locked away someplace safe. Know that the me who loved you is still sitting on that beach, forever feeling the sunlight. And know that I’m okay with not having that memory right now, because the me that holds it tight is keeping it safe and uncorrupted and glorious. And she loves you. And I do too. Remember that.

It's okay to keep a broken oven in your yard as long as you call it art.

And sometimes it is small and sometimes it is big, but always it is hard. And always it is worth it.

I remind myself that my eyes are working differently than most people’s right now. Being in the dark too long will do that to you. And sometimes there’s a small blessing in that.

After all, the most interesting of us have been broken and mended and broken again.

If I had a nickel for every time I hypocritically felt better about myself for not being one of those other hypocritical people who self-righteously brag about being better than other people who aren’t as enlightened as they are, I’d probably have enough money to actually fix some of the things that none of us are really doing anything meaningful about.

First date. Never eaten pistachios before. Crunched into a handful, shell and all. Pretended that’s how I preferred them. ~FALLENPIXEL

Fuck the people who make you feel bad for glorifying the odd behavior and questionable decisions that make you who you are.

Whenever something truly mortifying happens, you have a choice. You can let it haunt you for the rest of your life or you can celebrate it, as today’s awkward moment is tomorrow’s fantastic story.

My personal beasties are ugly and ridiculous and they weigh me down and are exhausting to carry around. Sometimes it feels like they are larger than I am. They are destructive and baffling and ungainly. And yet. And yet, there is something wonderful in embracing the peculiar and extraordinary monsters that make us unique. There is joy in accepting the curious and erratic beasts that force us to see the world in new ways. And there is an uncanny sort of fellowship that comes when you recognize the beasties that other people carry with them and the battles we are all fighting even when they seem invisible to the rest of the world. We all have these monsters, I suspect, although they come from different places and have different names and causes. But what we do with them makes a difference. And, whenever I can, I take mine out in the sun and try to appreciate that the flowers it rips up from the garden can sometimes be just as lovely when stuck in the teeth of its terrible mouth. Embrace your beasties. Love your awkwardness. Enjoy yourself. Celebrate the bizarreness that is you because, I assure you, you are more wondrous than you can possibly imagine … monsters and all.

Surviving mortification makes you stronger and more resilient because you have no other choice but to move on. Either you can let it eat at you, or you can celebrate it and bring joy to someone else who will cringe and giggle like mad along with you. Accidentally making shit awkward is such a familiar, vulnerable, and underrated accomplishment.

This morning I was writing about brussel sprouts and spellcheck told me they’re actually “brussels sprouts.” With an S. Like they’re from Brussels? Because I’m in my forties and I just now figured that out. My whole life has been a lie.

I am a bad risk,” I said, sighing with acceptance. He was silent for a minute. “You are a bad risk,” he agreed, nodding as he looked up at the stars. “But one I’m happy to take.” And as I breathed in the night air I thought of the struggle and the glory and the sadness and celebration and mystery that still lay ahead of me. And I said, “Me too.” And it was the truth.

I used the word “genitals” too much in this chapter so I went on Twitter to ask what a gender-neutral word for junk was and I got three hundred responses in ten minutes without a single person’s questioning why I was asking. A few of my favorites that I didn’t get to share earlier: “niblets,” “nethers,” “naughty bits,” “no-no zone,” “squish mittens,” “Area 51,” “the danger zone,” “the south 40,” “the situation” (with a suggested circular hand motion near said area), “the Department of the Interior,” “crotchal region,” “fandanglies,” “groinulars,” “groinacopia,” “my hoopty,” “my bidness,” “my chamber of secrets,” “my charcuterie,” “front butt,” “privy parts,” “private parts,” “pirate parts” (which I suspect was a typo but now I’m embracing it), and my personal favorite, “the good china.” This is exactly why I love the Internet. That and the fact that it’s where those fancy dictionary robots that yell “cockchafer” at each other live. The Internet is a goddamn wonderland, y’all.

I don’t remember how to feel like I did before. I know it will pass. I remind myself it will pass. It’s like reminding myself that I don’t need to breathe when I’m underwater. My body doesn’t believe it. My head doesn’t either. But my past says it will pass. And my past has never lied the way depression lies to me, so I take a deep breath and keep moving forward, even though I’ve forgotten where I was going.

I think that we tend to judge ourselves by the parties we attend or the trips we take or the selfies we post … the ones where we don’t look happy enough, so we take them again and again until we have that perfect forced pose that we hope shows strangers that we are not as alone as we fear we are.

I just realized that the order of the alphabet is completely random. It’s not in alphabetical order because that was invented after the randomness of the alphabet, so how did we decide that this was the order of the alphabet? Are other languages’ alphabets in the exact same order? WHO STARTED THIS?

Those terrible things you tell yourself? Can you imagine if the person you love most were telling themselves those things? You’d think they were crazy. And wrong. They think the same about you. Those negative things you are thinking are not rational. Remember that depression lies and that your brain is not always trustworthy.

In some ways it’s a relief to feel the pain of coming rains. It assures me that the storms in my head are real too. And that they will, as well, pass in time. I wonder if there’s a weather pattern for depression. A barometric pressure for anxiety. A bad wind for sleeplessness and fear. I wonder why I’m so much rain in bones and fog in thought.

Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. —LEONARD COHEN

Sometimes I think you want me dead, but the truth isn't so absolute. You just don't care for me to live.

I will probably feel my best only after I've been dead for 6 months.

You can fly. But only metaphorically. You can not actually fly. I don't care how much PCP you've had, get off the roof, you idiot.

It’s easy to say that suicide caused by mental illness is selfish. And it is. But not in the way that you think. It’s not the person being selfish by taking the easy way out. It’s the disease itself that is selfish. It steals away the very essence of you and leaves terrible lies in its place. It takes the logic that is true and twists it so that you can’t see things that are rational and real. That depression lies to you. You recognize these lies when you are sane or stable or balanced, but when you are in the depths of a depression they seem real.

It steals away the very essence of you and leaves terrible lies in its place. It takes the logic that is true and twists it so that you can’t see things that are rational and real. That depression lies to you. You recognize these lies when you are sane or stable or balanced, but when you are in the depths of a depression they seem real. When I’m in that hole I remind myself that my brain is lying and that I’ll realize that fully when I recover. And I do.

Here's a question: what do people like even better than cocaine? Fried food. And what do they like even more than fried food? Sticks. You know what's never been thought of? Fried cocaine on a stick. Y'all, we are gonna be zillionaires.

I live with two extroverts, which is helpful in that they keep me from becoming a complete hermit but also terrible because they have no concept of the utter emotional and physical exhaustion that comes from living in a world that is too peoply.

The problem is that depression is my forever side dish to any period of convalescence and illness, and depression lies. It tells you that you are worthless. That life was never good. That you are a drain on the world and that it will only get worse.

My point is, don’t let other people set your expectations for what is or isn’t important in life, because so often the best moments are the ridiculous laughter at funerals or the mundane but lovely conversations with family or the unexpected friends you make in prison.

Sometimes my anxiety gets hard in ways that you might not expect. If you struggle with anxiety, you probably know this feeling, the paralysis. I get stuck and suddenly it’s been days since I replied to people on the internet and the pressure gets worse and I panic that people I haven’t responded to are mad at me, so I ignore their emails and I don’t look at my DMs or my texts and I don’t answer my phone or listen to voicemails, because if I just wait until my mind gets better, maybe I can deal with this then, but I don’t, because it doesn’t. And instead, I look at those unopened emails from my friends and family and colleagues until I have memorized the subject lines by heart and I think about how strange it is that they probably think I’m ignoring them when, in fact, I am utterly haunted by them.

And I will always use two spaces after a period even though it’s a clear sign that I’m over forty because that’s how people who learned to type on weighty, horrible honest-to-Jesus typewriters were taught and if I stop it’s like pissing on the grave of my seventh-grade typing teacher.

Follow your doctor’s orders. For me that means antidepressants and behavioral therapy. Exercise thirty minutes a day, six days a week. Get sunlight, or if you can’t, use light therapy. Do not overuse your light therapy lamp even though you want to. Treat yourself like you would your favorite pet. Plenty of fresh water, lots of rest, snuggles as needed, allow yourself naps. Avoid negativity. That means the news, people, movies. It will all be there when you’re healthy again. The world will get on without your seeing it. Forgive yourself. For being broken. For being you. For thinking those are things that you need forgiveness for. Those terrible things you tell yourself? Can you imagine if the person you love most were telling themselves those things? You’d think they were crazy. And wrong. They think the same about you. Those negative things you are thinking are not rational. Remember that depression lies and that your brain is not always trustworthy. Give yourself permission to recover. I’m lucky that I can work odd hours and take mental health days but I still feel shitty for taking them. Realize that sometimes these slow days are necessary and healthy and utterly responsible. Watch Doctor Who. Love on an animal. Go adopt a rescue, or if you can’t, go to the shelter and just snuggle a kitten. Then realize that that same little kitten that you’re cradling isn’t going to accomplish shit but is still wonderful and lovely and so important. You are that kitten. Get up. Go brush your teeth. Go take a hot shower. If you do nothing else today just change into a new pair of pajamas. It helps. Remember that you are not alone. There are crisis lines filled with people who want to help. There are people who love you more than you know. There are people who can’t wait to meet you because you will teach them how unalone they are. You are so worthy of happiness and it will come.

I have more tools now than ever, and that helps, but sometimes the only thing that I accomplish in a day is just surviving. It’s both an amazing achievement and also tinged with shame, as you see others who seem to whiz past you as you barely tread water. Maybe they’re treading water too. You can’t tell. You’re just trying to breathe.

I told Victor that we had to leave immediately, because I had accidentally kicked someone who was pooping. 'Why would you do that?' he asked. I considered explaining the meaning of the word "accidentally" to Victor, but I was too freaked out. And so instead, I said, 'I just kicked someone with the ghost of my foot, and now we have to leave.

Life is full of these moments that are supposed to be amazing but end up being questionable at best. I often wonder if it’s because we build them up as being so important and so they can never measure up. I think that’s part of it, but honestly I suspect that the people who made up all the milestones that are supposed to be important are psychopaths.

I suppose it makes sense in a terrible sort of way. After all, we are changed by life … it puts its teeth in us, it leaves its handprints and marks and scars on us. And as much as we try to ignore those things, in the end they make us who we are. For good or for bad, we are changed and touched and broken and mended and scarred. And those marks (inside and out) tell a story. They tell our story.

It’s the whole world. It’s every terrible thing that happens in the universe that I feel like I need to speak out about but then don’t because fear stops me. Then I fear that inaction. I fear that my silence is equal to agreement with terrible things. I fear when I do speak out that I’ve done so inelegantly, or wrongly, or that I’ve made things worse. That it’s not my place to speak or that it’s not my place to be silent.

I wonder what would happen if I tried the same reasoning on you. 'I have received your insurance premium invoice. My conclusion is this fee is not financially appropriate for you. It is my decision that you should be paid in bags of rocks deposited directly on your testicles. You may appeal this decision by screaming and hitting your head against a brick wall until you get tired, then read this letter again because I'm not fucking listening.

After all, we are changed by life … it puts its teeth in us, it leaves its handprints and marks and scars on us. And as much as we try to ignore those things, in the end they make us who we are. For good or for bad, we are changed and touched and broken and mended and scarred. And those marks (inside and out) tell a story. They tell our story. Sometimes we hide them away, those injuries done by others (or, worse, by ourselves). We conceal them up our sleeves or jammed deep into pockets. We try to pretend that they never hurt at all. But it’s a strange and meaningless action. Anyone who has lived would almost certainly understand and maybe even reveal their own hidden defects they’ve been hiding from the world as well. The world feels safer somehow if we share our pain. It becomes more manageable. And by sharing our pain, we inspire others to share theirs. We are so much less alone if we learn to wear our imperfections proudly, like tarnished jewelry that still shines just as brightly.

It's worse when I use an e-reader because I try to buy books and my e-reader is like, 'You already own that, dumbass.' And I'm like 'Nuh uh!' And then it downloads, and I see that I have highlighted parts of the book that I would totally highlight if it was me. And I read strange notes I've written on the pages. Some people might find this unsettling. And in some ways it is. But it's also sort of nice to always have a new book that I discuss with my book club. Who is basically just all of the me's who have read the book before and left weird notes in the edges. It sounds insane, but my book club is awesome. And possibly the largest group of people I encounter, even if all of them are me's that I've forgotten. They're very entertaining, though, and when I read their notes, I'll cry out, 'YES! I agree so much! I thought it was just me!' And I guess that makes sense because it is just me?

Then I remember that my last tape recorder was replaced by my CD walkman that I used when I used to remember to exercise. Except the CD player was sort of janky, and it wouldn't play unless it was held flat. So, I would power walk through my neighborhood, holding the CD player with both hands in front of me like I was in a really big hurry to present a small waffle iron to someone just around the corner.

I lose things a lot, but usually in relatable ways. Like, when I can't find my glasses because they're on my face, or when I'm looking for my vodka, but it's already in my stomach.

When Victor asked why I had missed so much of the movie, I stared at the screen and just said, 'Diarrhea.' Because no one ever questions diarrhea. And it was easier than saying the toilet ate my shoe because I do all the things wrong.

I went to the drug store, and the clerk asked if he could help, and I said, 'Yeah, I'm looking for tiny condoms. Like, toddler-sized tiny.' And he was like, 'Uhhhh?' And I quickly explained, 'I mean, not for me, obviously.' And he laughed in semi-relief. And I said, 'They're for my dog.' And then he stopped laughing. 'They're not for her penis,' I said. 'She's a girl dog, she doesn't even have a penis. I need condoms for her hands.' And then he looked at me weird, but probably just because I said my dog has hands instead of paws, and maybe also because he thought my dog was into fisting, which she's not. Because I don't even think dogs do that. 'Not for fisting,' I added.

I was running after her yelling, 'Let me wipe you!" But she growled and hid under the table, and I was like, 'Your vagina is a group effort, dog!" And then she tried to bite me, and I was like, 'Look, I'm not trying to shame you! I assure you, this is all perfectly natural for a woman!' And then Victor came out of his office and yelled about how hard I make it to be professional on conference calls, and I was like, 'Don't blame me, blame your dog's vagina!

Last time I saw my doctor, she was putting another woman on the same diet, and I was like, 'It is a weird diet. You can have all the bacon and Vodka you want, but no carrots.' And my doctor was like, 'That is not really the diet I put you on.' And I was all, 'You specifically said no carrots." And she was like, 'Yeah, I'm not arguing about the no carrot part.' Then she started talking about heart problems, but I stopped listening because basically every time she talks, I get a new disease.

I plan on staying on the diet for another month or two, but I don't think I can do it longer than that, because bread is delicious and with all the Vodka I'm drinking, I'm thinking I might be getting too healthy.

No one wants to hear 'Put on a happy face!' when they're miserable. But I was nodding violently in agreement when you added, 'Make it the face of the guy who cheated on you with your best friend! Take his face and wear it around a little. Maybe wear it when you peek into your former best friend's window at 2:00 in the morning. Just a suggestion.

The worst part is how cunningly your words echo the terrible lies my mental illness tells me. You don't really need that medication. It's all in your head. It's too expensive. It won't work. It's a waste of money. Those lies are difficult to fight when you're dealing with depression. It's even more difficult when your insurance company seems to speak the same words.

Just last week, I got beaned in the head with a live squirrel. Which seems like some sort of terrible message from God.

I think a head injury from a suicidal squirrel would be a really embarrassing way to die, but it would at least give the CSI team a really good mystery because there weren't even any trees above me.

Gutters are scary as shit, and that's why I didn't even want them in the first place. You know who lives in gutters? Clown murderers. We bought tubes to catch clown murderers. Great choice, Victor! And then, Victor pointed out that it would be ridiculous that clown murderers could fit in our roof gutters, but right now, there's a tree growing in ours. So I think all bets are off.

There are dicks stuck in my car holes, and everyone at the post office thinks I buy tiny dildos in bulk!' 'Right,' Victor said, 'because that's the real issue here.' 'Yeah, and now the people at the post office probably think I have, like, a tiny vagina. And now every time I see them, I'm gonna want to defend my vagina and be like, "I know you didn't ask out loud, but I can assure you that my vagina is much roomier than you'd think.

The Affirmator: An affirmative vibrator designed to counter the shame of masturbation. Masturbation that's so good for you, even the pope might recommend it. It has a programmable electronic voice box which says positive affirmations like, 'It's okay, everyone does it!' 'Your hair looks fantastic today, by the way. Down there. *raises eyebrow*' It would be like you're fucking Stephen Hawking. Might mispronounce names, though. And it can tweet out how active you are. Also it has a pedometer so that you can count calories. Which lets you feel like you're doing something healthy.

The Devo Cup: For when you don't want to swallow. No cleanup necessary. Just attach the Devo cup at the moment of ejaculation. Slogan: Make your little buddy look like a member of Devo and put on a concert.

Glitter is way harder to get rid of than crabs. Not that I would know. I don't have glitter.

From the makers of Dickdazzler comes, Cock Pocket. It's a pocket made from your own foreskin.

When hairless cats curl up into a ball, their excess belly skins looks a lot like a lady garden. So, we can have the best of both worlds by adopting unwanted hairless cats and using them for photoshoots of... vaginas, quote unquote. So that we can make a Pornhub that doesn't exploit young women. We'll call it Bald Pusses. And technically, we can't get sued for lying.

Stop the illegal drug epidemic by adding crap to drugs so that people won't think that they're cool anymore. Like, cut heroin with powdered milk and that way people who are lactose intolerant will think that heroin gives them explosive diarrhea. Also, maybe we run a series of anti-drug commercials of me shitting myself. Because you know what doesn't seem cool? A middle aged woman shitting herself.

We are currently in an environmental crisis, as islands of floating garbage pile up in our garbage. Reclaim and recycle with Repurposed Cocks .com. Go carbon neutral using discarded dildos as neck rests on planes, foot rollers for arthritis, blackjacks for self defense, dog chews, or very short bungy cords. Repel rubber bullets. Uh, note to self, test this first. Use them as dog toys for fetching or stuff into cribs for baby bumpers that double as teethers- (You should wash them first.)

And I will always use two spaces after a period even though it’s a clear sign that I’m over forty because that’s how people who learned to type on weighty, horrible honest-to-Jesus typewriters were taught and if I stop it’s like pissing on the grave of my seventh-grade typing teacher. And also, I don’t want to stop. Those

I bet if male dogs had thumbs they’d send us dick pics all the time. My phone tried to correct that to “duck pics.” But honestly the phone is probably right. They’d probably send us duck pics too. Dogs fucking love ducks.

Truly. I have managed to fuck shit up in shockingly impressive ways and still be considered a fairly acceptable person.

Why can’t you clean the gutters?” And the answer is, “Gutters are scary as shit and that’s why I didn’t want them in the first place. You know who lives in gutters? Clown murderers. We bought tubes to catch clown murderers. GREAT CHOICE.

Usually I struggle with simple things. I make strange choices. The strength it takes to shower or the energy it takes to eat? You don’t get both, so choose wisely. Every action takes such work … as if living with mental illness is like waking to a different disability each day.

But I'll keep going. I'll keep fighting. And I'll keep forgiving myself for being flawed and human, and if I can't write a funny chapter, I'll write a chapter like this. One that might be a little pathetic, might not make sense to anyone but me, but is still true. Exactly like me

The light is bright on those good days. I can feel fully … both good and bad. I laugh and cry. I have energy to live. I can see the world and let the world see me with eyes that don’t hurt. I see my child. I see my friends and family and I feel how lucky I am.

My therapist says I’m too empathetic for my own good. That I pick up on other people’s emotions and feelings and then I feel them myself even when it hurts. And she’s right. That’s why I have to separate myself from others, from even life sometimes … to keep safe the soft core that shines when I find people like me … who are good but broken. Who want nothing but happiness. Who would give you their shoes, or their stories, or sometimes even their own precious, collected shards. The shards that they’ve worked for, and love, and treasure. And sometimes they do give them. And sometimes you give them back some of yours. And you’re surprised to find that these shards fit better.

The world is shattered and we wander barefoot through one another’s broken shards and glittering slivers. And some of us bleed from the cuts. And some of us heal. And if you’re lucky, you do both. We are broken. We are healing. It never ends. And, if you look at it in just the right light, it is beautiful.

Embrace your beasties. Love your awkwardness. Enjoy yourself. Celebrate the bizarreness that is you because, I assure you, you are more wondrous than you can possibly imagine … monsters and all.

I can still afford the expensive medications and doctors’ bills and there are a lot of people who can’t. I’m lucky. I could be sicker. I could be dead. I could be dead. I wrote that twice because I’m saying it with two different emotions. One where I’m so grateful to be alive and another sneakier, terrible thought where I realize that if I do die I’ll get some rest. That’s fucked up. I know it. And as soon as it hits my mind I shoo it away because I know it’s the depression, but this is a place for honesty, so there it is.

We are getting better. Slowly … much too slowly. We are so far from perfect but we build on the shoulders of those who come before us and (I hope, God, I hope) we learn from them and we grow and evolve. Their stories push us forward in good and bad ways, but only if we are willing to listen.

I’m not much for organized religion, but I think we all have souls. Glowing half orbs. Flat at our back and round at our chests, like glass paperweights with golden candy-button dots at the center. And as we live, our spheres crack. They splinter with sadness or loss or doubt or pain. Sometimes the splinter that falls out is a loss of faith. Sometimes it’s the loss of love or a betrayal. Sometimes it’s just a lack of structural integrity (depression/chemical issues) that causes irregular shards to fall out. Then we walk around with these slivers missing … these holes. We try to put the slivers back in place, but they don’t fit right anymore and so we leave them. And then we search.

AIM HIGH … Because your blow dart will lose altitude over the distance to your enemies and you need to account for that. Also wind direction.