On writing

I don’t know why I ever stopped writing. I’m good at writing. Writing is something that I live, that I breathe, even if I don’t really live or breathe it (or even read). I can’t remember the last book I read. I have so many books that I half-read. I could tell you about the first half of Kitchen Confidential, the first half of Mindy Kaling’s book where she’s smirking and looking off into the corner somewhere at some big uncircumcised European’s penis.

I think I lost confidence in myself somewhere. I don’t want to lose confidence in myself again. I’m getting to the point where I realize what a badass motherfucker I really am, and I’m getting okay with acknowledging it. I think I’ve met some pretty cool people recently who made me realize that there is nothing that separates them from me. Maybe they just knew it at an earlier age than I did. Maybe they just pushed themselves at moments in their lives where I felt weak. Maybe they had a father who said, “You’re a fucking rockstar and you need to make your dreams come true,” instead of, “I don’t know, you need to work on that a little bit more.”

I am really quick at pointing fingers. The only finger that I need to be pointing is at myself.

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