I won’t lie. As someone who gets people unstuck for a living, I’ve been in my own certain sense of stuck as of late. When something goes right, I seem to step in yet another pile of bullshit.
Either I have highly active invisible bulls living in my condo (which are sooooo against my HOAs it’s not even funny — wait, okay — it’s actually funny) OR I’m my own problem.
While I do enjoy the whimsy in thinking I could be the proprietor the world’s only sanctuary for invisible bulls, I’m inclined to think it’s the latter. And while my audience might think of me as not having many fucks to give, I’ve found that my greatest moments of struggle come when I give fucks (in any quantity) about the wrong things.
Here are nine piles of bullshit you might be stepping in daily. Regularly. And you’ve got great taste in shoes, my sweets. Ain’t it high time you (and me both) started walking around them instead of stepping in them?
You’re worried people don’t like you. Every single day of my life, I get hate mail. Blog comments, people being shitty to me on the comment form on my website. While it doesn’t come in droves, it does come daily. I have absolutely zero fucks to give whether anyone likes me or not. And here’s the truth, buttercup — don’t ever waste your time worrying if people don’t like you. Instead, spend time finding the people who will like you for you. And the only way to find them (goddammmmmmmmmit) is to be you. Let your freak flag fly so they can see it from 300 yards and work their way through a crowd of ferrets to find your brand of fabulous. There are people out there who yearn to stand next to your brand of freak.
You’re worried about offending someone. When I get worried about offending someone, my editor goes on. I stop being honest. I replace the BEST words and actions with the RIGHT ones. And the right ones — the words and actions — can never be the best. I’m here to live the best life I can. I want to die and have people fighting over what to put on my headstone because there was simply so much I brought to this world and so many who were better for all I brought. I want my survivors to say fuck it and scrap the headstone and pour my ashes out onto the floor of a penny arcade porn theatre — a place where people go to be themselves behind closed doors because they’re ashamed of what they want and feel and see. When I give any fucks to caring whether I offend someone, I’m editing my way out of writing the best possible version of the story of my life. And that, buttercup, is the only story you or I are ever properly equipped to write. I mean, me MY story and you YOUR story. Kick me in the clam if I (or anyone) try to steal your pen.
You’re waiting for permission. You are a grown ass adult. You are not a child. Who the fuck do you think is going to give you this everloving permission you seek? When I’m stuck, I have all of these ideas floating around in my head with manufactured obstacles surrounding them — lack of this, too much that — and they’re all bullshit. I don’t need anyone’s permission to create. To move forward. Hell, to move period. So tell me, buttercup — are you going to be a grown ass adult? You’ve earned it. You dealt with puberty and acne and high school dances and heartache. And here you stand, ready. You’re able. The only question that remains is…are you willing? I have zero fucks to give about permission. I live in a city filled with actors who are waiting for someone to give them their big break. Here’s a tip: It’s your job to go out and make your own big break. Permission is an orgasm you give yourself. Go get off.
You think you’re fat. You’re beautiful. I have nothing else to say about this because I beat myself up about this daily, no matter what I weigh. I’m beautiful. And it’s high time I started believing it instead of waiting for someone else to validate me.
You’re blaming everyone else. Transformation begins with ownership. You cannot transform a life you don’t OWN. Tuck that pointy-ass finger back into its holster and the next time you whip it out, make sure it’s in front of the mirror. But on that note…
You’re only blaming yourself. Yeah, I see you — the expert at blaming yourself for every sideways thing in this world. I’m betting that you would break up with you if you talked to you the way you talk to you. When you work that sentence out, get back to me. And in the meantime, not everything is your fucking fault. Blame deserves zero fucks. Kindness to yourself coupled with some grown ass accountability? ALL OF THE FUCKS. Right there.
You’re reacting instead of plotting. Stabbed in the back? In the front? Shivved in the parking lot by a client who took what you taught them and ripped you off lock, stock, and barrel? I know, buttercup — you’re ready to go Michael Bay movie on someone’s ass and right fucking now. But can I invite you into the kitchen for a spot of tea and a Xanax for a moment? I’m guilty of this. But these times are also when I reach out to the people who can hear me rant and help me plot. I have zero fucks to give to reactionary thinking. Now that, buttercup, is a steaming pile I’ve been stepping in for 41 years. Lemme see the bottom of your shoes. Ease up on the itchy trigger finger and instead figure out what’s next and why. And don’t come tracking those bullshit-covered reactionary shoes into my living room.
You’re desperate for validation. I find myself slipping into this more often than I like — this mode where I need something external to tell my internal that it’s righty-o and AOK. You already know that you’re the only one who’s going to give yourself permission. You’ve stopping giving fucks to whether people like you or might be offended by what you say. Now, sweet buttercup, it’s time to stick the bridle and bit on that wild, oversized honey badger and get you summa whatever it is you feel you’re lacking. And today, please promise me this:
If you feel unattractive, find a photo of yourself you love and carry it in your pocket. Remind yourself that you don’t just photograph well. That person in that picture is YOU and you’re fucking awesome.
If you feel unloved, dial the phone and call the one person who loves you. Today, it might not be the person you want to love you, but tomorrow, you will still be loved. And tell the person you want to love you who won’t (ever) to suck it. They deserve zero of your fucks as hearts aren’t toys and yours deserves a partner, not an adversary.
And finally, if you feel you’re not enough…
You refuse to believe you are enough. You are, precious. Oh holy hell on toast with orange marmalade and a print edition of the New York Times, YES. You are enough. When you hold as truth that there is no one more qualified on this planet to be you than YOU, the universe will change before your eyes. You’ll stop putting your precious fucks where they don’t belong and instead, you’ll use them to feed your purpose. They’ll be the fuel for why you wake up every day. And in a world obsessed with more, bigger, and better that celebrates the non-thinking residual pulp of lives less lived like Honey Boo Boo, anything Kardashian, and 50 shades of what the fuck is that ENGLISH?! crap bound pages masquerading as “literature,” you and your YOU have so much more to offer.
And your fucks are ready and waiting to take your enough into the stratosphere. If only you’d see that, dear buttercup —
you are enough.
Now — let’s have a look at your shoes, dearie. You and I are the only ones who are ever going to put our feet where they need to go next. And as neither of us are the guardians of invisible bulls…we might do better by skipping these piles of bullshit.
After all, there are fucks waiting to be given. And for better causes than these piles of bullshit above.