if the title didn’t clue you in…I curse…a lot. I use “Fuck” not just like it’s a conjunction, verb, adverb, or adjective…I use “Fuck” like it’s a bloody fucking comma. I’m honestly a little in love with that fucking word. I pepper it throughout my speech and writings. Even a lot of my poetry.
If you’re not comfortable with cursing you likely are not going to like 50% of my posts, and I’m ok with that. This blog will not be for everyone. Despite our cute little about me pages, Jenn and I are pretty dark and gritty people, and this blog is going to be the relief valve for our darkness. We’re drowning in it, showering ourselves in it’s gripping hedonistic blood like Carrie at the prom.
I’m not resigned to the darkness that lives inside, I’m not just accepting of it. I understand it, I seek it out and pay it attention, I relish in it. One thing you should know is that I don’t identify as goth or emo, or whatever the fuck else we’re calling moody all black wearing angsty teens these days.
I’ve had a few anniversaries of my 29th birthday. I wear colors. I smile, I joke around; I listen to bubble gum pop (and country, classic rock, alt rock, hard rock, folk, jazz, blues, etc), watch chick flicks (and action, drama, thriller, comedy, and documentaries). I work in Corporate America and I LOVE it. Most people who casually know me would never think of me as goth/emo.
Yet, I love the darkness inside. The scars I carry continue to teach me lessons, continue to show me my weaknesses, continue to show me how strong I have become. They help me to know that I can survive anything because they are living fucking proof of all the hells I have already survived.
I suffer from PTSD. I have lived through a lot of tragedy, dealt and been dealt a lot of fucking pain. Some days it is nothing more than a story. Most of the time, to most of the audiences I have…it is nothing more than a fucked up story. Ninety-nine percent of the time it’s a story I brag about. Because I’m that kind of fucked up. Some days though, some days my soul is crushed under the weight of that story.
I have always been creative. I have always been inspired by pain and misery. I have always been a writer. Ever since I first learned to take pen to paper. My mom still has the cutesy things I wrote as a child. Twelve years ago started a series of chapters in my story that sucked the creativity out of my soul.
Fast forward to last Friday. When Jenni wrote some awesome dark bloody fucking poems that spoke to me and unleashed a longing in my soul to write again. She was in a similar spot, having her own share of darkness and tragedy. We have very different stories, with very similar outcomes. So a long phone call later, we are creating this blog, a Facebook page, typing out and scheduling our first weeks worth of posts and planning the first month.
Some of my content will be new, some will be the remnants of my past; it will be dark and brooding, bloody and messy, bright and cheerful, sweet and loving, goofy and whimsical, dirty and sexy. It will be me.
And in true me fashion, I hope I slip and slide against your skin, pour into your eyes, snake my way inside and spark a fever in your heart. Check back in a couple hours for my first touch on your soul. Will it be a gentle caress? A hungry kiss? A teasing bite or a hard slap?