My words are my lifeblood spilt, splattered across pages, and dispersed over the internet in hopes of making connections with hearts that beat in time with mine. I’m a cheerful malcontent—by that I mean I’m a fucking mess of optimism and white hot rebellion. I write about my aversion to organized religion and the corrupt state of American government, and the beauty of being a mother who has raised an independent-minded daughter. I also write poetry that mentions death, decomposition, and post mortem fluids leaking all over a kitchen floor. Six months ago, my mother died, and was found on her kitchen floor several days after she’d died. So yeah, I’m not in a rainbow place at the moment. A lot of people are sick of reading about my mother, but I don’t give a fuck. I write my heart out, whether anyone likes it or not, because it is my therapy.
There are a lot of people who are tired of reading my ‘sad’ posts. To those people, I say, “Follow the rest who left me if you can’t stand my truth.” I write my truth, above all else. I know what I’m all about, believe me—I’m not a fucking fad.
I will never conform to the rules. I’m not a writer because I seek commercial success. I’m a writer because I’m a fucking writer. I don’t conform to fads—in fact, people conform to me, and writers like me. But conformists always flee, eventually…
You’re the real deal, or you’re not.