A Terriffying Transition

I’m not easily embarrassed.

I have 39 Twitter followers and still unabashedly post as if people were listening. I have a tattoo dedicated to my cats; another with a spelling error.

Capture

Irony with more facets than a disco ball.

I once got turned down when trying to sell clothes to a consignment shop because they apparently, “don’t buy Target brands.” On more than one occasion, I’ve stood in front of 36 teenagers with some sort of fashion faux pas — unzipped pants, stained shirt, food on my face (I guess these are more traits of a homeless person than “fashion errors”)…

But none of these objectively shameful experiences have pushed me over the proverbial “edge.”

(Actually, that’s a lie. I cried in my car for ten minutes after the b-word at the consignment shop told me my clothes were too cheap to buy. Then I went to Payless and bought BOGO shoes.)

I’ve been a mess for over 26 years, and I’ve gotten used to it. It’s fine. No one’s died, so it’s fine.

Except when it comes to my blog.

This blog.

The one you’re currently reading because either you’re my mom or you accidentally clicked the link when scrolling your Twitter or Facebook feed.

I’ve come to terms – as much as a person is able to come to terms with anything in her mid-twenties, since realistically I’m too new at this “adult life” thing to know what the fuck “terms” even are — with the fact that I am not A Writer. I’m a writer, and that’s cool with me.

However, I’m not a “good” one, and this blog is a testament to that embarrassment.

Don’t misunderstand me; I know that what I write here is generally good and/or entertaining. But it’s inconsistent. You see, Psycho Girl Self-Help was a re-brand of my original blog, ChaoticProlixity. Neither direction has given me consistent motivation to produce quality, compelling writing.

And by “quality, compelling,” I basically mean something that more than just my mom wants to read on a regular basis. Actually, I don’t think she even reads it anymore. So, I’m literally writing this to no one. Now that’s embarrassing.

I may have come to terms with just being a writer; if I want — and I do! — to grow some day into A Writer, then some changes have to take place.

It is for that reason that I’m saying goodnight to Psycho Girl Self-Help. She was early twenties me; time for mid-to-late twenties me to have her fifteen minutes (literally).

So, uh, introducing… Adulthood is Terriffying. Here goes…

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