Who am I?

Where is my voice?

I told my mom I lost my funny. Depression, that motherfucking thief, actually stole it. Depression and a guy who told me that even though I thought I was funny, I actually wasn’t that funny. The same guy who told me to stop swearing because it wasn’t ladylike or whatever men say to bring down women who are funnier than they are. I don’t remember. He can eat a dick.

Now I have to decide where my voice is. Like, do people want to hear that I’ve had hemorrhoids at the ripe age of 24 because of my love of cayenne? Do they really want to know that I love coming home, unbuttoning my pants, and eating carbs alone in my room? Or do they want to hear the sad shit, as plain and as painful as I can describe it? Though all of this is honest, I don’t know which direction to go in. Help.

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