Whiskey shits

There are certain things in life that will boost your confidence (IE: A super hero cape, a passing grade, a smile of approval, that gold star next to your name), or for myself: whiskey. Go ahead and pass all angles of judgement now, because by the end of this you will wish you didn't. I guess my initial reaction to someone telling me that an alcoholic beverage gives them confidence would definitely be a red flag. But there's a moral to this story. To my liquid superhero cape. So first, you must know me. To know my alter ego of heroism.

All my life my social awkwardness trumped any act of normalcy for me. I am 5'11'' which already made me a target of jokes throughout my younger years. Being taller than the boys in my class -and still being taller than most of the male population (Did you know* the average male is only 5'9'' which puts me at an already intimidating 2 inches above most my candidates) I was the go-to for any jabs of self security. The tables were innately never in my favor, so starts the journey of my uphill battle. So we will just call this phase one for right now.

To add another layer to this onion, I was a wandering child. My mother had daddy issues which then translated into many different male companions throughout my childhood. I even can recall a moment when my mom got into a fight with one of her former boyfriends, she had him lying face down in the dirt, holding onto his 80's metal hair cut tie up in a nice ponytail, a red stream flowing from his nose, as she screamed "Just admit that you fucked her".. good times. My mother is no bag of rocks that's for sure.
Anyways moral of the story -other than my mothers badassery, men came and went, as did my childhood homes. I've lived in a surplus of places including: Florida, Ohio, Texas, California. And for simplicity's sake I'll just round off that I attended about 8 different elementary schools by 5th grade. And if my math serves me right that means that for three years I attended at least two different schools. Adding another layer of social awkwardness to my onion, trying to fit in. I tried so hard to fit in. Most attempts were suicide missions. Some slightly successful. But it never lasted. End phase two.

If you're starting to feel bad for me, just knock it off. I love who I am. I just want you to know why I am this way. So moving on to phase three, we will jump back to phase two momentarily. Also known as, my mother. Don't get me wrong, she's a good hearted soul. But parenting was not for her. I grew up alone most my life. I never even told my mom when I got my period, I think that kinda speaks for itself. I enjoyed my alone time, I still do. But all that time I spent alone as a child has had a chemical downfall, better known as an introverted personality. Therefore, I never speak how I feel. I never have, and for the most part.. I never will (unless said wonder drink is consumed, then I wield the strength of 100 ponies). Seeing how outspoken my mother was a lesson to me of what 'not to do' because it always came with a consequence. Leaving me with the emotional capacity of an.. onion. The cutter you deep, the more tears you'll see.

So far we've talked about my height, relocation, and introverted lifestyle.

The point I want to make though is that regardless the life I've lived, the corners I've cut, and the wrongs I've endured, everyone has a scapegoat. I'm not here to justisfy intoxication as a form of self esteem. I am however grateful for whatever miracle of chemical balance it brings me when I do need to speak my mind, and grow some fucking balls. Word vomit is my ode. It's my choice of emphasis in this life. I'm particularly good at articulating when said burn has filled my throat, and lightened my gut wrenching nerves. We can't always be the best version of us, sometimes we need our capes. And goddamn it, sometimes I just need a whiskey neat burning down my throat for me to stand up and say, CARPE MOTHERFUCKING DIEM, BITCHES.

I didn't ask for this

I mean, I don't think anyone who falls in love with someone is concerned about the reprocussions that such a feat might entail. And the paper trail that it will inevitably leave behind.

I am pretty sure I've been in love more times than I should have at the age of 25. I have the an over active heart that just wants to give, and give, and give. I don't set boundaries. Restrictions and limitations are always the last thing I consider when someone interests me. So I guess you could say I get what I deserve, that I deserve the emotional torture that I put myself through. It's just that I am battling in an inward struggle of how true that is. I mean, yeah.. I have a tendency to be a bit over zealous, over giving, over compensating, over the fucking moon nice and bend over backwards for you.

But why is that so bad? Why am I the target for discussion? Us, the over populated mass of hopelessly pessimistic romantics. Do you really think that I haven't already thought of every angle you're going to throw at me? Every curveball? Please. Don't under estimate the emotional vacancy I showcase for the world to rent out, if even just for the night.

We are what we are. Stop picking on us.

If you really want to dissect something, let me counteract with a rebuttal as to why you never let me see how you are really feeling? Why is it so difficult to simply tell me I'm pretty when I'm not? Or that I look beautiful after I've smeared my mascara across my face after watching Eternal Sunshine for the bajillionth time? Why is it so hard for you to just.. be there when we need you? Are you mechanically rennovated? Was your heart reconstructed with a lack of elastiscity? Tell me! My eager heart can only bare so much.

We are the emotionally available. Because face it, no one else is going to listen to complain till three o'clock in the morning about how your Barista this morning messed up your coffee therefore creating a downward spiral of disaster all whilst holding your hand, kissing your neck, and absorbing every ounce of your energy and diluting it into something more pure.. Love.

So stop with the jokes, stop with the brute. I am a pushover for a long kiss goodnight and that four hours after that I'll be dreaming and wishing you were lying next to me. That you grabbed my face a little harder. That you wrapped your arms around my waist and pulled me in closer. That you kissed so gently I wasn't sure when you had started kissing me, and when we stopped and just stared awkwardly amazed looking into eachothers eyes.

EXCUSE ME FOR MY FAIRYTALES,  BUT I WILL NOT APOLOGIZE.