We started iron infusion treatments that lasted for two and a half weeks. I got poked, I got iron, I got breakfast, I got pampered. It was like a fucked up spa situation taking place in some parallel, sci-fi universe. It was very Brave New World…
When you only give people tiny pieces of your life—bit by selective bit—there’s bound to be skepticism and the ever lingering thought, “Did I really know this person at all?” And I have to ask, “Does anybody really know…anyone?”
It takes you being who you are at your core, seeing a need somewhere in this world that’s grossly overlooked and filling it to the brim. Find some way, using your talent for being the best you that you can be, to fill the world with what you have to offer.
To my one-star reviewer—it’s a good thing you stopped when you did. There is a lot more in my memoir (aside from just the introduction you couldn’t get past because of the “cussing”) to be offended by, because lots of offensive shit has happened in my life.
What anyone experiences while reading, and digesting, my book (aka me) has hardly anything to do with me. But it has everything to do with their life experiences and every little thing that makes them who they are, and I have about as much control over that as I do the person themselves.
I started writing shit I remembered about my life. The fucked up shit. The hard-to-talk-about shit. The funny shit. The sad shit. The embarrassing shit. The shit I was ashamed of. All of it. I printed them out and saved them in a folder. This would also be the case with journal entries, thoughts on napkins, ideas scribbled on hotel notepads…you get the idea.