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.