Messy
Mess. One of my former co-worker's favorite font was called "a D#$@ mess." I think she liked it cause she was so pure and it was the only time she could swear. But yes, messes. A couple of months ago, or so, or a month, or whatever you know how it goes, a friend gave me a magazine she thought I'd love. And I do love it. Or I should. It's a celebration of life... families... dads who love their kids... moms who sacrifice.. beautiful stories, pictures, poems, etc, around these sacred relationships. But I found myself depressed and not wanting to read it. These stories featured people with imperfections that didn't get resolved. Some stories celebrated the mess, the laundry that never got done. It was pictures of normal people. Skinny. Fat. Beautiful. Ordinary. Kinda not so pretty. They made too much of a deal out of things that were normal. Messy. Thing is, I don't like messes. I always want out. Fix it, come clean, purge, whatever, just... don't ...