I’m not sure of all the whys and hows (although I might be more sure than I’m ready to admit), but something has shifted in the last couple days, and I feel this unmistakable edge rising in me. Not just the sassy edge you might catch from me at times.
Something sharper. Maybe more dangerous.
P.S. It’s not PMS. And I’m choosing to believe this isn’t the new me (God help us if it is) but it’s where I’m at for now and, once again, it seems pointless (and stupid?) to try to be someplace else.
Something’s cooking and I’m watching the pot to see what bubbles up – trying to resist the urge to slam a lid on it. Hoping to prevent it all from squirting out sideways if you know what I mean.
I guess since this has temporarily become a blog of the possibly-too-honest reelings of a very-reluctant girl-in-healing, that edge will probably show up here now and then. As I tell R-kids often, it’s not about you. K?
So, here’s to edgy-ness, and whatever the heck is in that pot.
Photo from the book I’m Becoming My Mother by Anne Taintor.
by julie rybarczyk | shorts and longs | the both and
