As I sit here eating a cold waffle

I realize that looking at pictures of girls who used to make me feel like dying because of comparative jealousy do not necessarily make me feel like dying anymore. I mean, it is hard to believe that some of the girls that I see actually exist, they are too perfect. I know they must have their ugly days but do they struggle with the uphill battle of cystic acne and buttchin? The knowledge that I am not pretty enough to kick it is a little off-putting. But, it does not destroy me.

It used to destroy me. I’m not sure why it doesn’t anymore. Maybe because sometimes I play this little game with myself, which is probably very wrong now that I’m writing it out, but I do this thing where I think well yeah, they may be too pretty for me to kick it with them and I would definitely feel like a bullfrog if I took a picture with them, but they’re probably stupid. That’s what gives me peace. Great.

But I played that mental gymnastics for a long time and it never worked, so I think the other reason that I don’t care as much is because I just don’t care as much. Like, maybe I’m becoming more confident!? Not to say, that I’m like, confident, because… Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. But things aren’t killing me anymore.

Let me just say that I used to sit on the computer for hours searching through pictures of girls with prettier features than me and would use them to mutilate my own soul. And I don’t do that anymore. I think my standards of what is important have changed. And that is a miracle, my friends. As much as I would probably enjoy basking in the light of a beautiful woman with long perfect hair and flawless skin and call her my friend, typically this doesn’t happen.

More realistically, my best friends are as follows: the man who lives with me. Has a big poofy afro and ADHD. Loves anime. My cat. A trans man. A dude who can always be caught wearing the same Auto Zone t-shirt. A girl on her fourth hip surgery who has gained weight consequently. A quiet girl who takes trips to Mackinaw every year. My mom. My sister. A girl covered in tatoos but is conflicted religiously on whether to cover them all up. A big, beautiful redhead.

In addition, a curly-haired girl who has been basically bedridden for the last four years due to an unknown disease. A recent divorce. A tall, tall, tall, dorky and awesome book illustrator. My pastor, his wife, and my mentor, all over 50. A lot of my friends are over 50. My ex-boyfriend’s political realist mom is probably one of my best friends.

So, yeah. Not exactly the most instagrammable bunch. But you know? As I write it down I realize how lucky I am. Really. I feel like a mangled mess walking through life with a bunch of weirdos. They keep me together, keep me grounded. And I’d be proud to grace the pages of instagram with our presence. We might not be as hot, but we certainly have a story to tell through our jacked up bodies and brains.



Sometimes you just feel destroyed. Sometimes you can’t think straight because you’ve got a million different fucking theologies flying around in your head and you just can’t process it. Sometimes it sounds nice to have a nice professional blog but the only time I can seem to write is when my life is falling apart. A nice professional blog I will most likely never have. I’m going to art school and I don’t even feel okay about it because I’m riddled with ridiculous guilt from an angry, tyrannical god. I want to fly, to make art, to put it in a perfect portfolio and have everything listed out on a webpage but most likely, it won’t be. Most likely I will drop out after three semesters at best and have all my artwork saved in random folders on my computer and shuffled into random spots around my house. I can’t fucking do anything right. I’m sick of all the cliches and tips stuffed into my fucking head. I knew how to live a normal life before Christianity and now I feel as though 45 full sized millstones were hung about my neck and I’m drowning. Just drowning because I don’t pray right, I don’t have discipline, my house is a disaster. And that one girl from bible school is posting about how we’re too obsessed with “messy culture.” Well excuse us for trying to push back against the legalism. God forgive us if we admit this life is hard, God forgive me if I admit I don’t want to be a stay at home mom, don’t feel like birthing children will make me feel complete, forgive me if I struggle hard with my bisexuality and what that means and who I am and my calling to be a Pastor but that’s WRONG so NEVERMIND! I feel like I have no feet planted on the ground and I’m just fucking floating away, seeing pictures of old friends getting Christianmarried and wishing them good luck because I’m sitting at my kitchen table bawling for the first time in weeks because I’ve been too shut down to shed a freaking tear, because marriage is so fucking hard and I literally cannot keep my head up I literally cannot keep my head up I literally will drown if someone does not help me I am literally going to die. Because I want to jump on the train of my favorite slam poet Emily Joy from Moody Bible Institute who actually does things FOR THE KINGDOM that I believe ACTUALLY MATTER and I wish to disassociate myself from John Piper and Franklin Graham and other conservative Christian things as much as possible, but those I love and respect more than anyone else believe the same way they do, including my mother. I need to write more because there’s really no one in my life that can feel my pain, who will sit with me in it, who is open to thinking that maybe the Bible isn’t saying what we think it is? It’s easy for the cute housewife to affirm things that make me want to vomit out my own soul. I’ve contemplated suicide, but I don’t have the nerve. As we speak I can feel God’s presence in the air and I appreciate it. I like it. That’s all I know is that I feel God’s presence all around me in this FUCKING mess and I like it. I don’t even know anything else, fuck it.