A lot of the stuff I write sucks.
Sometimes you readers will let me know. Most of the time, I read something I wrote days or months later and am gripped with embarrassment and regret.
What in the hell was I thinking?
I know people must think I’m an idiot, illiterate, or crazy.
Shit, I used to know grammar. What in the hell was I trying to say?
I wish I could erase many of my posts from the universe, yet in today’s world, that is impossible. They live on — forever.
There are many nights that chamomile tea and Unisom can’t stop the hamster in my brain from repeatedly running my poorly written words round and round. There are many dinners where my “support group” must listen, reassure, and pour (wine helps numb the pain) as I…
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