I deserve much of the current shape of my life.

Not all of it.

Of that disposition both more and less than love

As something of a personal writing exercise - and to perhaps also exorcise some silly resentment/entitlement demons that have cropped up over the years as a lingering consequence of my belief in “the legitimacy of an individual’s experience of love” - I’m going to start a project whereupon I write open letters to all of the longtime lady crushes I’ve longtime lady crushed on throughout my life. Yeardley Smith, Mara Wilson, Natalie Portman, Mary-Louise Parker, and anyone else in whom I’ve (mis)placed identification and intimacy.

Hell, I might even tackle all of the fictional ones.

Additionally, there’s a part of me that just wants to say something to these people. It’s not their responsiblity, it’s not their obligation, and there’s no expectation here that they should read or respond or care. In this day and age, it’s much easier to determine the distinction between person and celebrity, and they have social rights that must be respected.

All the same, there’s value in the saying. There’s value in how these things informed the amalgam and product of who I came to be. Value that is my own, yet to not attempt to share it would leave me remiss; I think it a crime.

Tonight should be about:

• typing up inventories
• pricing inventory
• writing an appeal
• editing footage from a photoshoot
• editing footage from vacation
• reviewing (likely crummy) footage from tonight’s eclipse
• doing laundry
• cleaning
• exercising

And I want - so very much - for it to be about those things.

Tonight will and needs to be about:

• sleep

Normally I end up shooting for all of the above and then missing the mark on almost all of it. For once, I really think I need to put an active effort into allowing my body to just.. crash.

If it doesn’t work, I’m going to find somebody to teach me how.