If we have no scars (mental emotional psychic physical) you and I haven’t lived. My god, the stories I can tell. I’m a road map of the world, the horses that kicked me, the open wounds on a camel trip across Tanzania, the cut on my cheek from a branch while riding in Buenos Aires.
I am alive, brilliantly vibrantly alive, and I have lived hard, and my body shows it. Some butthead accused me of having wrinkles (on Match.com natch) you’re goddamned right I do. You oughta see where I got them. Top of huge mountains, kayaking icy seas, squinting at the sunset off Komodo Island….fuck you and your criticism about my goddamned wrinkles, and for anyone who shames us for the proof that we live. Out loud. Proud. And unapologetically.
Thanks for this.