I’m all kinds of flawed.  Selfish, moody, messy, disorganized, terrible with money,  and of course, the list of my unsavoriness is much longer than this. Because I am me, this stuff has been heavily analyzed, and much energy has gone into the revamping of my psyche in an effort to be less of the things that I deem icky. I’m human, so I grant myself a modicum of slack when it comes to exorcising my nasty anthropoid traits, and that’s a good thing, since I usually fail miserably at the work of “fixing” myself. 

 Lately I’m trying to relax around this really irritating aspect of myself, and I must admit, I’m failing with great success. I am a hopeful romantic. This is much worse than hopeless, if I were hopeless, the quest for romantic perfection would settle itself into a apathetic heap and just wail and starve itself to death…I would imagine. Without hope, all things wither.  I used to think of this aspect of my character as a bright spot, a beacon, something that was, above all things…TRUE. Instead, it’s a trickster, and a master at the game of bait and switch. I have been thrown around by my unshakeable romantic notions to the point of….almost….but not quite…surrender.  Surrendering to an unhappy ending… Sometimes I think I’m there, I exhale all of my hope, curl up into a ball of tear stained flesh and call it a life….and then…. Suddenly….HOPE!

 I am insane. I believe in true love, I believe in the possibility of overcoming impossible odds in the name of love. I believe in following your dreams NO MATTER WHAT. I am a cliché, a dreamer, a woman right on the verge of something incredible. I actually listen to my own heart with my stethoscope, just in case I’m not listening deep enough, just in case the literal listening might offer something in the way of CLARITY. I’m a mess….and if I were to ever succeed in cleaning myself up, I’m certain I would die.

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