So, um. Here's the thing.
I said a few years ago that I would probably be okay if I never wrote another book. Because, as I've mentioned, it wasn't exactly the awesome life experience that I hoped it would be.
(Incidentally? Why do people get so mad/hurt/offended when I'm honest about that? Believe me, it hurts me to admit that the one thing I wanted my entire life wasn't exactly all it was cracked up to be in my dreams, okay? I'm not saying it to discourage you, I'm just telling the truth. Anyway)
But my head is just filled with ALL! THIS! STUFF! lately. A lot of it is about the 175 or so pounds I've lost and how I'm dealing with that and everything that comes along with it.
(Ironically? People also get hurt/mad/offended/straight up pissed off when I'm honest about that too. Which sucks almost as much as it did about writing a book)
The other night I opened up a blank word document and my guts just started spilling out all over it. I wrote about how happy it's been and how sad it's been and how I felt when I wore a bikini the other day. I wrote about the water from the jets in the swimming pool hitting my skin and how I wonder if I'm ever going to happy about anything, really. I wrote about how it feels to have come this far and still not be at the "finish line" or if a finish line even exists for me. I wrote about the things that have changed and the things that never will.
I'm writing a book now. About myself, which I swore I would never do again. About weight-loss. To cement what a complete douche I am.
It may not ever see the light of day, and if not that's okay.
I just wanted to write it all down. The good, the bad, the loose, the flappy. All of it. Every bit of it.