Random Acts of Awesome

What do I need? I need to be happy. I need to be fulfilled. I need to have a sense of purpose. I need to feel safe. I need to be independent. With that last one, I wonder. Do I need to be independent? Or do I want? I don't know. So, what do I want? I want to be rich. I want to be happy. I want to do something good with my life. Wow. Wanting to be rich, brain? Really? When you just spent a couple hours worth of thought cycles thinking about how unhealthy your relationship with money is? But rich means safety, and independence. I do not want to do what I do for a living. It is not who I am. But it is money. It is safety, and it is independence. The money I make keeps me comfortable, but not happy. If I had more money, would I be both comfortable and happy? Not from the money alone, but from what the money allowed me to do, maybe. But I know myself. If I am not doing what I want and need to be doing now, money won't make a difference. It won't give me more d

I've been thinking about being silent lately. About not speaking, for a week or a month or a year. For however long it takes to silence the cacophony in my mind. It's not that I don't like the noise. I actually really love the busyness inside my own head, the stories I am constantly telling myself. It's just that they have gotten jumbled and out of hand these days. Some of these stories are getting older, I'm forgetting beginnings and not allowing for endings. My head feels like a spice cabinet crafted by an overzealous yet lazy cook who, with the best of intentions, bought every ingredient ever known to man in order to craft the most amazing dishes, and then shoved everything but the garlic powder and italian seasoning to the back of the cabinet. Too many of my words are moldering in the darkness back there, sealed into air tight containers, but loosing all their zest and flavor. I think silence would be a refreshing spring cleaning, a bringing out into the light

It cracks me up, and awes me a little, how much better life is after sex. I have had a deeply conflicted relationship with sex for a couple years now. I let it control me, freaked out at how easy that was, and promptly went WAY overboard in the opposite direction. I'd go for months with nothing, indulge in a furiously carnal and generally ill thought out bout with an inappropriate but easy connection, freak out again, and start the whole cycle over. The past couple of months, I've been focusing on allowing myself to make the decisions when it comes to sex. I have been propositioned numerous times, after having opened myself up energetically to the idea, and have given myself the time to think about each one. Regardless of what kind of pressure I was under, I always gave myself the time. I wouldn't apologize for it, wouldn't call myself a tease for making out with someone and then pulling back to analyze how I felt. I just took the time. And, generally, it's mean

I found the poetry of a man who sent me an unsolicited dick pic (Pro tip - don't send unsolicited dick pics, but especially don't send unsolicited dick pics if your email leads to everything about your life, including your facebook), and it was very good. He actually sent me a poem AND a dick pic, which was jarring. It was a sexy poem. A very, very good poem. Till suddenly DICK PIC IN YOUR FACE. Anyways. His poetry was beautiful. I went looking for his biography, curious about the kind of person who sends a piece of their soul along with their proof of concept body art. I found a lot of info about him, the fact that he'd been born on an Oregon reservation, that he'd gone to OSU, that he had a lot of friends who like him but probably didn't get him. I found his website, where'd he'd apparently started publishing other authors work in 2015 or so. It seemed like his life work. And that got me thinking about what those words mean. Life work. How do you know