I seem to be having a quarter-life crises.

I just wrote that sentence and stared at it for five minutes, not sure what to do next. I don’ t know how to write anymore. Every word and thought that enters my mind is unoriginal and uninspiring.

Now I want to start rewriting this entire post, because it makes me sound like such a downer.

I wish I was a funny writer.

If this blog was my best friend I would just stop typing right now and suggest that we go out to Brueggers and then perhaps, while we are there, we will be inspired by the elderly couples hunched together over their copies of the Democrat and Chronicle and the associates with their fake smiles and together come up with a plan to move to Los Angeles and start a band.

Named The Scene Stealers.

Wow, that is a horrible name for a band. I am bad at this. I quit right now.

…..

Just kidding. I’m back.

I’m watching Gilmore Girls again, for what is probably the tenth time, in hopes that something will snap in my brain and I will miraculously become the perfect merge between Lorelei and Rory

I’m glad I’m writing this with no intention of publishing it for at least three days. If I hit the send button now I would look back on this entire post like a regretful one night stand.

After my break up, I made a joke with a good friend of mine that I needed to make a list of all the things I wasn’t able to do while I was in my relationship.

I’m going to add, “Have a one night stand.” To the list.

I’d publish the list, but it’s too dirty for the Internet. I bet you thought that wasn’t possible.

This entire post is an experiment in writing the way you talk. Or writing what you actually think. I have spent my years since graduating college putting so much pressure on myself to be perfect that I have transformed into a being so imperfect, living such an imperfect unplanned life, that if it wasn’t happening to me, I’d be laughing.

But it is happening to me.

I have not allowed myself to be the writer I wanted. I have not allowed myself to live the life I’ve dreamed, because I have told myself that I must be better.

It is alright not to be perfect.

It is alright not to be perfect.

It is alright not to be perfect.

In fact, perfection is boring. From this moment on, I am allowing myself to be imperfect. I am allowing my life to be imperfect. I am allowing this blog to be imperfect.

I am imperfect. And I love myself for it.