I had a friend yesterday tell me to just own my shit and write about it.

It’s such great advice. I have so much shit I could write about I wouldn’t even know where to start. But it’s good shit. Funny shit. Some stupid shit I started myself (mostly), and some dumb shit that life just likes to throw around for shits and giggles.

I mean, some were terrible at the time but it’s been ages ago that they’re just amusing to me now. And I’ve realized that if I hadn’t gone through those challenging circumstances and acted on decisions I made on my own, I wouldn’t be as bold or as tenacious as I am now.

It’s funny how that works out.

There’s a solid “I-don’t-give-a-fuck-ness” about me now. I mean, sometimes I do — mostly I don’t. Earlier in my 20s, my life reached a level where the least of my worries was what people thought about me or if I was good enough to be accepted for anything. And I haven’t gone back since.

This actually freed me from the compulsion to conform and amass approval from random people. I’m still unsure sometimes of my capabilities, and I continue to have a fear of being judged again (that wasn’t pleasant). But I’m more okay with being alone, working on my own, being myself, whether I have people agreeing with me or not. That’s not a criterion I hold anymore to feel gratified.

I do plan on writing about my unusual life experiences. I’m just trying to figure out where to start, what to say, mainly questioning if this is even going to be mildly entertaining or just a waste of someone’s reading time.

Why, hello there again, insecurities.