I was going to start this all differently, and describe how I look and what I like, but I guess there's no point in going into the details of my physical preferential irrelevance. Unless you want to know what I look like? My favorite color? Do you? Does it matter? What if I start telling you and it ruins what you thought I was going to look like. How can I ruin this all before we even get started? Although I am taller than the average female. Not super tall but definitely not 5'5 or even 5'8. A little more give or take a few inches. My legs are long, and I always have thought my thighs were too big, even after losing weight. And my stomach for that matter. Fuck it, my whole body. I've always felt I was too big. It started around when I was ten. Or maybe nine? Jesus remembering numbers is getting more difficult as time goes by. But yes, back to my self-shaming body hating ways. That's called body dysmorphia, apparently? It's nice knowing that I'm not the only one that feels this way, but it still doesn't take away the fact that I still feel the same way regardless of knowing that there is a name for it. Anyways let's not get off track.

It was about seven years ago… or eight when I moved here? But who is really counting when your life flashes before your eyes and your heart breaks in your hands and then all of a sudden you have been away from your family and friends and home for ten years and all you have to show for it is the slight understanding of what body dysmorphia means and knowing the differences of going West on Sunset Blvd. and East on Lincoln. That last part is a lie. I still have no fucking clue which way to turn when some dickhead says, "Go West on Sunset." Hello Sir, does it look like I drive with a fucking compass? Anyways.

I always knew I wanted to leave home. I always loved traveling. I always knew I couldn't stay put for more than too long. That is still the hardest part, isn't it? Knowing you will never stay where you are but always wanting to go back to where you were. I ended up all over. I was in the suburbs surrendering to a first love, and the confusing feelings of trying to understand those feelings and myself. I found passion and adventure in the world of Bohemians and baguettes living in France. There was the South for a few miserable, yet enjoyable summers as I managed to dodge the Bible thumpers and learn to love country music. (Yeehaw). I had a brief stint in NYC and that very long island with many, many diners, and then I ended up here. In La La Land, where every day feels like a month and years feel like decades of self-loathing and failures, although I may be projecting.

But where to start with all of these stories? Does one start at the end in order to begin? Or must we travel through the dusted decades of before for you to truly understand how I got here now? Or maybe we can just jump all over into the mad beauty of life. It's always good to keep steady on your toes. Because you really never know what life will through at you next. All I know is that I have a story to tell, and maybe you will want to read it. Because maybe my story is yours. And maybe my pain and experiences weren’t just wasted time and heartache, but a wondrous woven web of beauty that connects us all together. And isn't that such a reassuring thing to think about? So, here goes nothing!