Playing with Matches

I can walk away and not give it another thought. But goddamn when I’m the one left standing in the fucking wreckage of not leaving when all the signs pointed to collapse, I’m just fucking stuck. Sometimes you have to burn the bridge you’re standing on to force yourself to move forward. I’m pretty good at lighting the match, writing a thing that’ll make you stop reading. But I don’t have to check the ruins; the truth is, you already unsubscribed.

Not you. I do appreciate every one of you fuckers who read this shit for reasons I don’t entirely understand. I’m just copying out the narrative in my head. Sometimes I’m trying to figure out a thing. Sometimes I just need somewhere to put it. Sometimes it feels less shameful. All these things about me that used to feel like shame. At some point I got older or I started thinking of myself as a writer and noticed it’s that gross ass shit that’s most interesting shit about me, it’s the shit I actually fucking like about me, and god help us, it’s the shit readers connect with because it’s the shit, the dark, dirty, slimy shit that connects us. Havrilesky wrote about that. Maybe it was today. Maybe the day before. We’ll find out when I link that line to hers.