We’re going somewhere, and when we get there… act like you got some fuckin’ sense.
That’s for me. But if it speaks to you, it’s for you, too.
This blog is a public diary of sorts. I don’t write posts often, or publicize them when I do. I’m a lady with a lot of thoughts, and sometimes casting them out into the ether is therapy.
I’m so impatient. I’m so loud. Always have been.
I understand the necessity for patience. That single-file line into the venue keeps things neat and concise.
I’m my most patient in the midst of going crazy. Unfortunately, I go crazy often, and it’s only then when I hate how people try to rush me.
“Wait! I’m thinking! Give me some time to think!”
I always say that when I’m losing my mind—when thinking is hardest. Where I fuck up is that I’ll be thinking too fast, with no pauses in between. Sometimes alone, sometimes for a crowd. And the dots that connect make sense in my head, but they don’t sound right out loud.
My struggles with my mental health are swimming around, hints here and there. God knows I can’t keep a secret. This mental exhibitionism is what it means to be an artist, I think. It’s not enough to have ideas. The compulsion is to bare my soul to an invisible audience, or else it isn’t real. I want privacy, but all my artistically significant work exposes me.
Therein lies the catch 22, right?
I’m a lady with a lot of thoughts, and sometimes casting them out into the ether is therapy. So, I write them down today. I express myself better in written work and poetry. It’s quieter this way.
Something bad always happens when I think too fast.
When I think too loud.
And then what? I’m patient now.
Patient in room 621.
In her hospital gown.
Be patient, Millie.
But no. Not that kind.