I take things too seriously. I know that about myself like I know my eyes are brown.
Did I say I was going to do a thing on a day in a certain way? Then that’s what I’ll do. Except then life gets in the way and a kid gets sick, a kinky submissive gets sick, her Daddy Dom gets sick, or work gets crazy, or sleep becomes elusive, or, or, or.
I should say, “Fuck it.” I should say, “It’s okay. Life happens.”
But I don’t. I do other things instead.
I wonder what’s wrong with me. I berate myself for not being better. I promise myself I’ll try harder. The mean girl voices in my head call me lazy and a liar and tell me I’ll never reach my goals. They taunt me with all the things I want to get done but can’t seem to manage. The voices ask why I bother, it’ll never happen, and tell me to give up.
God, I hate those bitches.
The fact of the matter is that I’m harder on myself than anyone could ever be. Want to know why John Brownstone rarely has to punish me (although it happens)? It’s hard to beat up on someone when they’ve already done the work for you.
If I fall short, mess up, make a mistake, or simply have a moment where I’m human and just…can’t, you can’t be harsher with me than I am. It’s impossible.
And my idea of falling short isn’t the same as what other people think it should be.
Made a spelling or grammar error in a post? I remember it, and check myself five times before publishing a thing – Every. Single. Time. Forever.
Didn’t write a Masturbation Monday post (or read this week’s posts) because I was sick? Clearly I’m a failure. I’ll be judged for my lack of commitment, and they’ll be right. (My rational side knows this isn’t true, but the mean girls are vicious.)
Still haven’t edited the last book I wrote so I can finally get it released? How dare I call myself a writer?! All I do is make promises I can’t keep and I suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. (And truly, it just needs fucking editing!!)
Made people wait three or four days (or longer) for a reply to their email? They’re going to think I’m ignoring them, don’t care, or a bitch. How could I be so rude?! (Y’all, I’m a mess.)
And yes, I know I need to get over it. Yes, I know I’m stressing myself out for nothing. Yes, I’m too hard on myself. I know all of it.
One of my greatest wishes in life is to say “Fuck it” and not feel guilty about it.
Didn’t have time to get my to-do list done? Fuck it, I’m taking a nap.
Hate the outcome of the American presidential election (and I really, really do). Fuck it, I’m burying my head in the sand for at least four years.
Bored by the work that pays the bills? Fuck it, we can be poor. I survived poverty twice, I can do it again. (Ugh, I would never do this, I promise!)
We have so many things to do and pay for, how dare I plan a freaking trip to London?! Fuck it, I just won’t go.
But my fuck-it bone is broken or I don’t have one at all, because once I latch onto something, decide it’s important, and give some of my energy to it, I can’t let it go, even down to the smallest details. So instead, I carry around guilty, anxiety, and stress over whatever my brain has decided is Really Important.
I promise, if I could, there’s so much I’d just say, “Fuck it” to. Including those mean girl voices in my head and my own too-high expectations. Really, I would.
Welcome to Wicked Wednesday. This week’s prompt was to write a “fucket” list, but my brain doesn’t have the bandwidth for that right now. It’s too busy wishing it didn’t care so damn much. If you want some ideas for your own fucket list, check out this week’s prompts.