Poop Poop ppoop

 I have come to understand there are two distinct ways of experiencing tragedy, and everyone who gets one wishes they had the other. There's blameless tragedy, which is sickening as a reminder that the world can push you down just because. A baby born silent or a star athlete's car wrapped around a pole driving home in a storm. Then the second of the tragedies obviously is driven by human intention, like murder or rape. 

Here's the reason I wish my tragedies were blameless: I have so many big emotions and I wish I could direct them at something as big as the universe. Hating real people doesn't solve anything so instead I carry my hate around with me and let it tell me who I shouldn't trust. I could set it down and walk away right now, but I've become protective of it like a piece of my cultural identity. My anger comforts me and I guard it like a burden I don't think anyone else could experience right.

One of the reviews on the back of Educated by Tara Westover praises something that's stuck with me for a long time- not only that she has the voice to tell a story but that she has a story in the first place. Now as someone with a story I can say it's overrated as fuck. When I write about this stuff now it's so I won't forget. I say that as someone who used to love talking about myself. Having a story is an obligation to an audience that does not give a fuck. If they do it means you've found a way to suffer that's so novel that people want to study it. Maybe the only reason I'm writing it out is because Nic stole it from me already for his counter complaint, and if I can't own my own fucking life he sure as shit can't either.

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