I’m not one to agree with Bobby Brown, but it is my prerogative to change my mind. I write things sometimes and they feel so true when I’m deep in them, but now, as I reflect on experiences I’ve had, I wonder if I was assessing properly. We all do the best we can in the moment, but what if I was wrong? Maybe the pit in my stomach was my own shit, not some sign. Perhaps all that mess I craved was me stewing in miserable to feel more alive. Maybe it was actually unhealthy not vibrant. The fact is I’m no editor. Though tonight I was told I often write things publicly and end up regretting writing them later. It’s part of living an unedited life, but what if that’s what growing is about? What if being a grown up means editing? I’m in trouble if that’s the case. I only feel like a grown up when I have to go to the bank or negotiate with a landlord. Otherwise, I’m still an unedited girl, which I’m learning isn’t necessarily a good thing. I’m second-guessing myself lately. Wondering if I should have deleted what I have, not just off this blog but in my life.