You can't fix me. I wish you could. I wish I could see what you see when you look at me, because then I might be able to accept your words in that deep down place.
I'm sorry. I feel like you've gotten a bad rap. I BLAME 13-YEAR-OLDS. AND CHICK FLICKS. AND TEENAGERS IN GENERAL. But infatuation, frankly, I THINK YOU'RE AMAZING. You are pretty much one of the best things EVER with your butterfly-inducting, heart-racing, knee-weakening moments. You make the start of relationships TANTALIZING, EARTH-MOVING and all-around OVERWHELMINGLY EXCITING. But yes, yes, … Continue reading Dear infatuation,
I am not you. GOODNESS, I am not you. And I am SICK TO DEATH of the majority of people around me, both inside and outside the Christian community, assuming I should be more like you. I am not and never will be. SO THERE (imagine childish foot-stamping here). And you know what, Christian nice girl, … Continue reading Dear Christian nice girl,
My, we are just taking our good ol' time, aren't we? And by we, I mean you. Because I'm here. ALONE. WAITING. Just like that terrible "Lady in Waiting" book I had to read in youth group told me to. And you're nowhere to be found. In fact, I'm starting to really think you don't exist. … Continue reading Dear Mr. Right,
Hey there, old friend. It's 27-year-old me, and we've been having a grand run. In fact, it's been quite a bit longer and grander than I desired, but thanks for the ... stories? Uncomfortable silences? Unfathomable responses? Yeah. Sure. Thanks for that. You know, Awkwardness, when I was young gal, I used to have high hopes … Continue reading Dear awkwardness,
Thanks for documenting every painful, humorous, trivial and excruciatingly terrible detail of life in your journals. They provide endless hours of amusement when re-reading them, as well as some moments of pride at bursts of unexpected maturity. If I could, I would sit next to you and say only four words: "It's gonna be OK." Or at least, … Continue reading Dear high school/college self,
You are terrible. No really. You are the worst. You take perfectly normal women (okay, in my case, a semi-normal woman) and turn them into the equivalent of Disney princesses screech-singing, "Someday my prince will come," as they run around forests like lunatics. In their heads, of course. Not in real life. That'd be a different type of … Continue reading Dear girl brain,