On being selfish

I have been so overwhelmed for the past couple of weeks? months? years? eh, lost count.

So I am doing something utterly selfish this weekend. And I refuse to feel guilty about it. (I am lying; I totally feel guilty)

I am going to New York for the weekend.

Don’t @ me.

You don’t have to, I promise.

My first trip to the Big Apple will be tainted with a global pandemic.

But sometimes mental health must be prioritized; I need a refresh. I need adventure. I need inspiration. I need to feel the fear of new places, people, smells and surroundings.

I am dying without it.

And so I go.

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Being born and raised in the south should have made me more inbred and less tolerant, but something went wrong in the grand scheme of these damned rebels. I am; brutally honest, a bad driver with a record to prove it, a connoisseur of stand-up comedy, the eldest child, an aware procrastinator, semi-sweet, the result of my mother losing her virginity, easily excitable, a lover of music, a pretty shit liar, late to any event no matter what, myself without apology.

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