It's me, Baby!

I gaze out the window, lurking at the outside like a creep, making an uncomfortable amount of eye contact with all those little cherubs, the spawn of a matrimonized filth, as I like to call them. I loudly whisper, "Shake your booty, kids! That's how you survive!" Sadly, they didn't hear me. So, being the responsible adult that I am, I tried to demonstrate, jiggling my perfectly curved spine to make them learn the cruel, promiscuous nature of this world. Then, while wondering if I have wasted the best years of my thighs, like a slap in the face, it suddenly dawned on me that this, unfortunately fortunately, is me: the reflection of a face sporting a mustache that looked like a lost cause, being a fuel of the existential spiral that I'd somehow fallen into. "Oh, what have I become?" I mumbled to the mirror. "I love myself. I do," I assure my reflection. "Do you believe me?" "I will not accept any rhetorical questions," my reflection echoed. "It's complicated."

And speaking of complicated, Instagram has become my daily dose of sanity. My morning routine has been filled with love-bombing myself with water and a scroll through those perfectly filtered captions: "Hugs, not drugs," they say. Wise words have never been spoken. Counting pouted lips and perfecting my own facial structure thanks to "Cheeks Maggie" is a casual Tuesday trip. I loved myself so much, it became a problem. I even tried to sell my used pads (my pre-loved sanitary wears) on a street vending site. A divorce had to ensue, and sugar, I will always win against me. I took custody of my caboose and the existential crisis. A fair trade, if you ask me.

I sometimes flirt with the idea of being a rebel. After all, who am I if not a lady with questionable morals? I have also tried to be naughty. I have even held a man's hand for longer than I should...once... but, good jolly, somehow nothing ever sticks. Perhaps it's my irrational fear of UTIs, or maybe I am just too comfortable cuddling the "lady balls" I have snagged from the men I have interacted with over the years. Who knows? You can rate the goods later though. They're on the table, just as a little token of my awkwardness.

I am what I am. My personality has been woven from the ashes. I can't quite be sure if it exists. The only way your personality can be amusing is if you have none. Am I right, or am I right?

My daily mantra is absolving myself of the person that I was yesterday. It's the only way to live, really. As a wise invert once said, "Consequences of your actions could only be a thing if you're still you."

So... who am I?

I am bad, and you know it (chuckles in he-he). In my adult life, I have come to learn that there is no such thing as a good person. There is you, and there is Keanu Reeves. The goodness and good gestures we gawk at are mostly driven by fear. The fear of being old one day makes you treat the aged well; the fear of dying makes you cry at funerals. And I ain't no pussy. There is my answer. Goodbye.