There are a lot of tragedies to being a woman.

There are a lot of tragedies to being a man, but I don’t really know about those ones.

I keep trying to fit into things that were not meant for me; things not made for me. I keep browsing websites and photos and magazines and ads of women who don’t look like me. Women who don’t think like me; women who might fuck like me. I keep looking at, envying about, women who aren’t me. Praying to be like somebody who isn’t me, praying to be somebody I know nothing about.

I think it’s my favorite tragedy. My favorite past time–being tragic. Being overtly, helplessly, ridiculously romantic.

I don’t know anything about these waifty women wearing handkerchief dresses with their razor-edged jawlines and cherried lips. I don’t know anything about buxom babes or plastic carved, silicone sculpted angels.

Even statues of our virgin Mary weeps.

Most of the time I don’t know anything about myself. I know that sometimes she’s pretty. That sometimes there are men who think she’s beautiful. I know that her mother thinks of her and cries often. I know that she is as loved as she is hated; and I know that most of these feelings are self-manifested and personally formed.

I think in this lifetime I’ve drank more alcohol than water, spent more than saved and earned more than enjoyed. But I know in this lifetime I’ve made more love than I’ve ever fucked; protected more than I’ve destroyed, and kept vastly more than I’ve lost.

We are not the cumulation of our mistakes. We are not paintings created purely from flaws.

It’s okay to be broken today. To be sad tomorrow.

It’s okay to swim through a depressed existence.

It’s okay to live through differentiated facets.

It’s my favorite thing to cry.