Dear Diary…..Today I dub thee Darla.

Why? Because that word-Nazi, Otto Korrecht, keeps trying to call you dairy.  I’m lactose intolerant.  That shit’s not going to work.

And besides….every time I start something with “Dear,” I immediately want to recite Darla’s love letter.  (You make me vomit.)  Ironically, so does dairy…. 

 

So Dear Darla,

Blessed are you, because you are the dumpster in which I plan to purge some fantastic nonsense.  A single person cannot possibly make up all of the stories that I have accumulated over the last year.  And after immense peer pressure to put my nonsense on record (such a bad idea), I’m collecting all of my ridiculous stories into one convenient online location, which will likely remain unviewed for all of internet eternity.  I mean come on, who really gives a flying fuck about ANOTHER blogger.  I don’t.

So man up Darla, you’re job is to give a fuck.  Prepare yourself.

You see….. Something in my 30-something year old brain FINALLY clicked into place.  I had to fire up all of my mantras: “fuck this, fuck that, I do what I want,” until it took hold of the deep rooted bullshit regarding relationships and happily ever afters. It’s sad to see how we are brainwashed into believing that there is a certain outline and checklist of things we need in order to feel happy and fulfilled.  Just so you know, that checklist is a bunch of bullshit.

To make a very long drawn out story short: I figured out that I can be perfectly excited to be me, and still be perfectly single, and living a perfectly unconventional lifestyle.

I’m giving you this responsibility, Darla, to help me put some realness back out into the world of cubicles and mortgages, of Kardashians and Instagram filters, of the Trump/Clinton circus, however little and ineffectual it may be.  Here’s hoping to make the world a slightly better, happier place.

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