Random Acts of Awesome

I have been socializing more lately, pushing myself to be around people in different contexts. No dating yet, but flirting around the edges with it. I've been trying to push myself to write more, dive in my psyche and dredge up some interesting and informative shit for me to stare at. But I've never been very good at forcing myself to write. As with many things I try to force myself to do, I rebel instantly. With other things, I've learned to treat myself like a 3 year old, and trick myself into doing shit I don't want to do but which will make me happy. I haven't gotten that far with writing yet, mostly because I haven't prioritized it. I will, though. Soon. I have joined a couple of different political action groups. While satisfying, I can also feel them nipping at my heels with teeth composed of need and guilt. I hate groups. I have always hated groups. Yet I still join them. And enjoy them, at first. I am more happily engaged in physical things, holding

Well, I went and reread my post from yesterday. It got me thinking about what I actually get from rereading my own stuff. A part of it is the thrill of putting myself in someone elses shoes as I read, imagining another humans reaction. It's a form of connection. A part of it is editing, trying to catch mistakes in spelling or sentence structure. And an even bigger part of it is curiosity about self, a tangible connection to the me that wrote whatever I wrote. I'm mystified sometimes, rereading this shit I put out there. It feels like reading the words of a stranger. And I enjoy that feeling, that sense of me as an unknown. I woke up this morning at 5:45am because I was having a scary dream about sharks. Great white sharks, in a canyon river, where I was watching a truly idiotic older dude refuse to get out of the water despite having one of the sharks almost attack him. It was a fascinating dream, with me apologizing to the doctor in front of me for screaming in his ear, even

I have been in full on survival mode for a while now, and haven't really had the time to write out any self reflection. Also, I haven't had the energy to be witty, and why write if you can't be witty? I'm still not witty, but I figured it was time to write anyways. Because if there is anything that the past few months have taught me, it's that I have a surprisingly unhealthy relationship with ego. Surprising to me at least. The things I thought I was humble about? Didn't actually matter. The things I wasn't really humble about but was really good at hiding that fact from myself? Kind of huge, and an intrinsic part of self. Needing to be witty, or deep, or at LEAST entertaining, has held me back in many different forms of expression for a very long time. Margaret Atwood says to write like no one will ever read what you have to say, including yourself. Write, and never re-read. Just write. I've never been able to do that. Because what I write has to