A friend of mine once gave me feedback on my blog. That was two days ago. Today I am still contemplating what he said.

What he said didn’t upset me or anything, but it did make me contemplate some things. He said I don’t blog about myself. That would be correct statement. (He also said I was interesting with interesting hobbies, which really was the best part of the entire email, and I’m not entirely sure why all emails don’t begin and end with these words.)

I have a hard time talking about myself. If you ask me how I’m doing I’ll tell you that I’m fine—even if I’m not. Go ahead and ask me about my husband, just make sure to bring a blanket—it’s going to get icy. I get embarrassed talking about myself. Feelings? Fuck that shit, I don’t have those. I find it a lot easier to make fun of life than to talk about it—partly because I don’t like to take life seriously, but mostly because life really is serious and super scary. It is easier for me to ignore it. The truth is that every morning fat, lazy, and depressed Stephen weighs down on interesting Stephen and there is a lot more of him than interesting Stephen so he usually wins. Sometimes I lay in bed for hours. It’s easier for me to say I hate mommy bloggers or mention how I’d like to cut bitches than it is for me to deal with real things. (Seriously though, if my blog consisted entirely of photos and descriptions of things I have forced out of my body nobody would read it at all. It might even get banned in some countries.)

I don’t even want to publish this.