No ragrets.

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Have you seen pics of tattoos that absolutely suck? Where you are just like DUDE what the fuck were you thinking and also, they make you sign that paper that says you haven’t done any drugs in the last few hours and like… were you sure? Cause that seems like a fairly radical and awful choice. Except also, who is the asshat who you PAID to do that to your body? I mean, we spell check tweets for fuck’s sake, likely you should check permanent ink being seared into your flesh.

(Examples here, cause I am nice. #22 actually made me shed a tear.)

Note: Sometimes I get ranty. Bear with me, there’s a point. Very often reached by tangential muttering followed by whimsical musing and made up words like “feelings-y”– but usually, I get there. 

So, also today, I checked my horoscope for the year 2017 (cause at this point, a gal needs something to hang on to). It’s SUPER awesome and basically everything’s gonna rock. Except. It said something about love and a past lover or a past life’s lover (which, btw, I can’t even really go there), coming BACK and I was like FUCK NO WHICH ONE.

No ragrets.

But.

I just don’t want to go backwards.

I am doing my very best cleansing, yogic breathing in my most valiant attempts to just move on. To move away from the patterns and people and loves and losses of the past several years. I am open and ready and willing… except please actually none of you come back.

Unless Kit Harrington and I were star-crossed lovers during the Revolutionary War and he died in my arms in battle, leaning into my corseted bosom, my tear streaked face the last earthly sight he gazed upon… I digress.

When I think about it, I have spent the last 15 years or so MOVING ON. Falling for people, loving them, breaking up with them, getting over them, recycling them one or two times, then onto the next. It’s a pattern and I have very, very seldom been alone. I am a serial monogamer through and through.

My friend at works says “Kate, you don’t do casual.” And I of course scoff and guffaw and pffffff in her face; but she’s not wrong.

I am a strictly “better to have loved and lost” kinda girl. I love falling in love. I love the drama. The angst. The butterflies. Even the break up a bit. It’s fun to hang on to the pure hatred for a while. The plots to avenge my honor. Imagining the public ways you will suffer your comeuppance.

Also, I love humans. I love getting to know what makes you tick. Imagining the possibilities of us. Trying you on for size. I’ve been with artists, teachers, mechanics, philosophers, dreamers, business-types, a DJ; I just love finding out who I am next to you. It’s like being freaking Margaret Meade and I just want to observe you and absorb you and sit around your campfire for a bit while I take notes on your eating habits.

I never said I was normal.

So as I reflect on a somewhat lonely New Years weekend, while gleefully hanging on to shreds of hatred toward my most recent ex, whose charming smile and stupid witty sense of humor sucked me right in and then SPIT ME OUT (if you are reading this I am STILL SO MAD AT YOU)–but hear me on this:  I have NO RAGRETS. I would not trade a moment of any of it.

Allow me to explain.

At the deepest, most primal level, my sweet boys are the exact children I was meant to mother. I mean, like a mother lion who swats away feisty little cubs with her strong mama-lion paws, I cannot EVEN at times, but they are perfectly mine. Their father continues to be an asshat, but he gave me these two utterly incredible human beings. And if I had never fallen in love with and married that asshat, I would not have the two greatest loves of my life.

So if I regret him? By proxy, I regret them. And that is not possible. Not even the tiniest bit.

No ragrets.

Sidenote: as an aspiring novelist, you better believe your sweet cheeks EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU FOOLS is gonna be in my book. You’re gonna be able to say you knew me when, but also that you’re Dick from page 67 who got snuffed by the killer clown.

I said I didn’t have REGRETS, not that I didn’t enjoy REVENGE served ice cold with a twist of lime.

Peace loves.

 

 

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