The Wall

I feel like not writing.

Here is what I do feel like doing right now:

1) Going on Facebook.
2) Checking how many hits I have on my blogs.
3) Sleeping. (Too early though.)
4) Eating Jello chocolate pudding.
5) Calling one of my exes. (Really bad idea. What the hell is wrong with me?)
6) Putting my whole book in the recycle bin.

How could this be, you ask, when just days ago I was super excited about my book and writing like a crazy person? Well, now that I hit page 182 (yes, I'm bragging, I guess), I am suspicious that everything--everything--I just wrote was utter and complete shit.

Of course, there is that one gorgeous sentence on the seventh page, and a really good metaphor towards the end, but I really don't see the point of finishing my book, let alone writing it at all. I mean, what is it really about anyway? My relationships? Who cares. I don't have some tragic story. I didn't do anything interesting or heroic. I had some boyfriends. We went on some dates, we had some sex. We fought sometimes. We laughed. We broke up. And now I'm alone. And I'm trying to tie that in with my parents' divorce and remarriages. And a semi-traumatic teenage experience. And I have no idea if anything in these nearly 200 pages will make sense to anyone but me.

One could say that doesn't matter. Write for yourself first. But this isn't my journal. This should be publishable. I know I will have to go through draft after draft to make it less dear diary and more hardcover best-seller. I know revision is the job. I just hate being stuck in the middle of it--between the grand idea and the finished product. It's like being in a swamp. I can't see anything but the current page I am working on and I am terrified of making a decision or inserting a certain thought or moment because what if that little anecdote will be better somewhere else? Of course, I could just move it later, but now I'm frustrated and I hate every sentence I write and I feel like giving up.

So, for tonight, I am just going to sit here and go on Facebook and type in a sentence here and there in my draft. I'm going to accept the fact that I have hit a wall. And I'm going to hate myself just a little bit. Because, tomorrow, or the next day, I know that I will get that urge to write and I will be brilliant again. Then that will pass and the whole thing will start all over again.

But right now, I'm just gonna go for that chocolate pudding...

When Workshopping Feels Like Work

Workshopping, this act of bringing in rough pages for your classmates to pick apart, can be terrifying. Last spring I took classes with my good friends from my program, and, at first, I worried that our out-of-class-closeness might hinder the process of being objective and honest.

But I was wrong. When you're sitting with your friends and talking about your work, you know that they want you to do well. Last semester, there seemed to be an unwritten contract that we'd start by highlighting the attributes in someone's writing before constructively discussing what didn't work, while providing suggestions on how to make the piece of writing even better. Of course, we would laugh, joke, commiserate, sigh, and give side-hugs throughout this process, which only made it more intimate, and rewarding. We cared.

Having come from this experience, I was surprised when, in my poetry and prose class Tuesday night, I sorta yelled at someone during workshop. While I pretty much know everyone in the class, only a few are my friends, with JT being my closest. During workshop , JT gave us a poem--a super brave, totally awesome poem--and this one guy was pretty much like, well, I hated it. And, then, that guy needed to be beaten down.

If I am anything, I am a loyal friend, probably to a fault. When someone says something that might, might be insulting to someone I love, I will cut that bitch. After my retort to the guy last night, JT reported he was, "30 percent surprised, 20 percent scared of you, and 50 percent glad that you're such a protective friend."

My response seemed necessary, in that these were some of the critiques our classmates threw around that night:

1. Well, I hate [technique you used throughout your whole piece].
2. This shift is too abrupt.
3. To make this piece actually work, you need to...

Of course, with a new class, a new set of writers, comes a new dynamic. Of course, we should be honest and able to accept criticism. But have a little tact, come on. Coming from the experience of being in a room made up of virtually just my friends, I find it difficult to go back to this sort of unemotional, detached workshop setting, in which my classmates are not invested in my work, nor in me.

More than anything, I am so thankful to the community of writers, and amazing (AMAZING!) friends, I have had the honor to meet in this program. I could never express how valuable it is to be able to hand Meagan a stack of pages without being self-conscious, or conversely, getting a script from Julie because she knows I want to help her out in any way I can. There is a sense of we're-all-in-this-together, something I think a lot of writers shy away from, preferring to toil away in solitude. You loners are missing out, that I know for sure.

So, thank you, my fabulous writer friends. I am certainly missing you this semester.

Three Weeks Single? Hollaaaa!

I must be on drugs or something. Everything--and I do mean everything--is making me smile right now. And not just smile, but laugh. The gulping, can't-breathe, pick-up-my-own-knee-so-I-can-slap it laughter. LOLing, some might call it.

Maybe my look-on-the-bright-side-of-life attitude is some sort of post-dating denial, where things that should hurt my feelings are actually pretty funny. I wouldn't know, considering I've never been single this long (three weeks, I think it is now).

Anyway, I feel great. I may not have felt great last week and I may not feel great tomorrow, but today, life is just freakin' beautiful. Something new happens everyday, whether it's as simple as an unexpected email or as wonderful as realizing I have the most amazing friends in the world.

I was reading Meagan's copy of The Breath of God by Swami Chetanananda this morning, in which he has a chapter on expectations. He says that no matter how badly you want something to happen--or how perfect, great, or wonderful life would be if it did--that desire doesn't mean whatever it is you want will actually become reality. I learned this lesson big time recently. Slowly, I'm finding comfort in the unknown. Life is a ride, man, and I am on it.

Part of being able to find the beauty, or the hilarity, in everything is accepting that life is crazy and doesn't make any sense. And even if it did, we still have no control over anything. Which is kinda exciting. Which is why life totally, TOTALLY, pays off.

I attribute this new outlook of positivity about (and surrender to) life, to the fact that I have been doing yoga five-days-a-week for the past two weeks. So, not only am I on my way to being smokin' hot, but I continually have that sorta-sore--because-I-worked-out-yesterday feeling, which gives me the confidence to eat that chocolate croissant or rice krispie treat at Starbucks without wanting to kill myself.

More than that, though, practicing yoga again has allowed me to look forward to all the things I won't be able to predict or control. I'm happy with right now. Right now rocks. And, hey, it's been three weeks and still no crush on a boy. I feel like I should throw myself a party. This record is a personal best.


**On the yoga note, if you live on the Westside and haven't had the esteemed pleasure to attend Meagan's Anusara-inspired yoga class, she teaches Mondays-Thursdays at 9 a.m., and Saturdays at 8 a.m. at The Hub (on Barrington between Olympic and Santa Monica). So, if you're into getting your ass kicked yoga-style, or just want to stalk me (come on, admit it, it's more than just a healthy blog addiction at this point), you should come hang. First two classes are free of charge.

Cocky Writer Talking Smack

All writers know that writing sucks. Writing is putting your most personal thoughts down on paper for a bunch of strangers (you hope), as well as everyone in your life who knows you well, to read. Scary stuff. But maybe that's why we do it. Ponder this.

The process of writing also sucks. You sit there for hours in a coffee shop, maybe changing two words, two letters even, on each page. Then you go again and read over your draft and change them back. Or cut whole sections completely. Or move everything around so much to the point where you have no idea what the heck you just did and what your book (and is it even a book, anyway?) is about anymore.

But instead of bitching about all of this, I have a new approach. Guess what, suckers? I freakin rock. In fact, after starting with between 50 and 80 pages just four weeks ago of this new book/thesis/thing, I now have 152. And I will get it to 300 by the time it is due in eight weeks. And it will be freakin good.

You know what, I'm done calling it a book/thesis/thing. Let's just call it what it is. A book. As seen on book store shelves in the near future, bitches.

Because, at this point, I love this book so much that I want to marry it on Facebook. I love it so much that I just want to finish it and I could care less if it gets published. Okay, that's sort of a lie because I also want to be able to say haha to some people by being successful, but, one thing at a time. Get the book written. Revenge, sweet, sweet revenge, comes next.

What prompted this change in attitude, you might ask? For one, I have eaten coffee, a rice-krispie treat, a piece of blueberry crumble cake, some yogurt, and some chips today. So I'm a bit loopy.

But, there is some reason to this new stance. I used to hate it in college when everyone who was working super hard (ok, me), moped around all the time complaining about how much work they had. As if to make the slackers feel better for not doing their work. Oh, doesn't this totally suck: I went to the library all night and wrote my paper and I'm going to get an A, let's all feel bad for me and how smart I am. Lame.

So, I say, screw that attitude. I'm going to brag. I wrote for over eight hours today. In two different coffee shops. Boo-yah. And you know what I'm doing tomorrow? Gonna write some more.

I don't see the point in complaining about work I'm inflicting upon myself or trying to make it seem like I don't think what I am doing totally rocks. I get to sit here and go cross-eyed in front of my laptop doing what I love. Writing. About myself. And I'm just going to own it.

As for the rest of you, I have a challenge: Do better. I dare you.

The Intelligence Curse

Speaking of things I have been noticing, I've discovered (along with my amazing roommate Ms. Meagan McCrary), this: the smarter the girl, the higher chance she will stay single.

Smart girls can spot red flags, even smarter ones know to walk away when they see them. (I am still working on this.) Smart girls know every guy they date is replaceable. It is their (our) curse.

Girls who are in relationships because they feel like they should be, because they are too comfortable, because they are afraid of change, or because they just want to get married--well, we can call them stupid girls, sorry, but it's true. Of course they're going to stay with a guy because they've already put so much time in, of course they're going to put up with bullshit, even when they sometimes know they shouldn't--they aren't smart enough to know better.

And I envy them. As Meagan said last week, in talking about a recent guy situation, "I wish I was the stupid slut you treat me like." Wouldn't life just be so much easier that way?

Noticing What You Notice

Joan Didion says she writes to find out what she thinks and (I believe) it is Patricia Hampl who writes to uncover what she already knows. For me, writing is a combination of these two. I write to discover which of the things I believe actually are true, and which of those the lies I tell myself to get through life.

Having recently switched my thesis project to a new direction, one which is actually closer to the reason I decided to get my Master's in writing, as well as reflects the kind of book I wanted to write in the first place, I learn something new every day, whether I'm looking at a specific event or person in a way I couldn't in a particular moment or why I do, think, or feel certain things.

One thing I find myself doing a great deal is making connections. Since I am writing about relationships (mine primarily), I end up comparing and contrasting them a great deal. Two guys I've dated both shared nearly the same taste in music, owned a tote-bag make from an old sail, and continually needed me to help them pick out clothing before we'd go out to dinner. Another set of two both broke up with me after I revealed my insecurities with our relationships. In every situation, there is an odd ebb and flow of both superficial and intricate coincidences, patterns, and repetitions. What they all mean, I am not so sure, but I see that they are there.

A couple weeks ago, my memoir class went to see Verlyn Klinkenborg speak at the Hammer Museum. He said the one lesson he's learned as a writer, which took him a very long time to understand, was, "I assume that if I notice something, it is worth noticing." Which gives me some assurance in over-thinking even the smallest connection. (Finally, my trusty over-analyzing skills can non-self-destructively calculate.)

Klinkenborg went on to explain that what we notice as writers and how we feel about what we notice matters. Yet, we can go a step further: notice what we notice, then try to understand how we feel about what we notice, and, finally, act upon that knowledge.

I am writing to find out what I think. I am writing to find out what I already know. But I am also writing so that I might act upon what I discover about myself. Memoir can be a meditation, even a confession, both of which Sam Dunn has said, but it can also be a transformation.

While I write, the opinions and feelings I hold toward those men I've allowed into my life change. But mainly, the truths I believe about myself are what really shift. The question of who I really am becomes foggier with each hour spent looking at the page, and the decisions I've made less logical the more I try to understand them.

Over the next months I will scour and interrogate my memories to attempt to figure out who I am, which is both terrifying and exciting. But, I hope, in getting to know me, (the me that's often clouded with wants to live up to expectations, fears of judgment, and layers of insecurities) I can take that knowledge Klinkenborg alluded to and transform myself into the woman I wish to be.

On Relationship Writing

Romance and relationships are often seen as overwritten subjects. Because my thesis has turned from an almost-completely-straight-non-fiction endeavor to memoir, about these two very subjects, I am particularly drawn to how other writers have created universality through introspective voice, prioritizing not their happily-ever-afters (or, in my case, lack-of), but how they’ve made sense of their experiences.

Writers like Sam Dunn inspire female camaraderie in their work by making their subject matter more than just about men, romance, and sex, but what it means to be women, and, ultimately, human. In candidly chronicling their stories, these women give me the courage, and the permission, to write about my own humiliations, pain, and shortcomings. They remind me that women really can emerge from the shadow of men, jump off our pedestals, and burst through that glass ceiling, as well as escape from these reinforced clichés and stereotyped roles that infiltrate much of women’s literature, as well as our lives.

While the world seems over-saturated with silly love stories, it's because, when these stories are well-written, they reveal something important to us about ourselves. Eckhart Tolle, in his book The Power of Now, describes a situation with a psychologist who counseled women recently emancipated from a war-torn country. Instead of discussing the perils of war in their one-on-one sessions, the psychologist reported that most of these women began with something along the lines of, “So, there’s this guy...”

For many of us, there will always be that guy. It’s what we discover from (and of) ourselves as a result of him, and how brave we are on the page in disclosing what we’ve learned that determines the value of the experience, as well as the work that comes from it.

A woman might pick up a book like Sam Dunn’s Faith in Carlos Gomez because she is enticed by the subject matter, but she comes away with a valuable experience that calls upon her to reflect about her own life. As narrator/catalyst for the reader’s personal exploration, Sam Dunn is especially skilled in establishing herself as a layered character we love and care about. In Carlos Gomez, I don’t root for her relationship with a particular man; it’s Dunn’s journey in which I’m invested, and this is what makes the book more than chick-lit. In characterizing herself as endearing, vulnerable, and imperfect, Dunn’s journey somehow feels like my own. To create this intimacy, Dunn establishes herself as character with self-deprecation and humor, and her ability to make fun of herself exudes a charm so infectious I knew her—and loved her—by the fifth page.

By contrast, comedienne Chelsea Handler’s My Horizontal Life, which relies on shocking sex details and laugh-out-loud unexpected humor, is a good read, but does not inspire me to write. Dunn temps me to try my hand at writing my story by showing me how powerful fierce honesty and disclosure can be. Her ability to texurize her story with humiliation, even pain, adds a layer over the superficial gloss humor leaves on the page, which is why Handler entertains but can’t truly connect.

I learned from Dunn (and, in contrast, Handler) that it’s not enough to be funny or to even have a strong voice. Besides, cleverness doesn’t translate on the page if it is not paired with depth—it just becomes self-righteously annoying. In re-reading pages I workshopped last Fall (enduring Janet Fitch’s notes when I passed my pages off as fiction in her class), I see I was in Handler territory. Janet especially did not like the “character” I wrote about—me—saying this girl was superficial, unwilling to get dirty. She was absolutely right. I wrote wryly about the perils of sorority-induced hook-ups, yet, lucky me had my own fairytale ending (a long-term boyfriend), and I was on my way to produce a feel-good, throw-away, chick-lit, beach read. When the semester ended, and the boyfriend became an ex, I drastically changed my tune, for the better. I need to get gritty and uncomfortable. I want to be the type of writer Sam Dunn is, one whose female readers exclaim to themselves as they flip each page that they too have felt or experienced what she had, for better and for worse. I have to stop worrying if people like me or not (as Natasha the writer who sits in class) and commit to creating a character on the page who is real.

In order to do this, I must stop merely skimming the surface of my life in my writing. Sure, embarrassment is great material, but I can plunge deeper into even less inviting waters. I have seen changes in my work as I test my bravery. Not surprisingly, I am told my writing is better the more I recount events that are uncomfortable for me to describe. I know now I must allow vulnerability to seep into my work if I want to live up to the standard set by the women writers I so admire.

As Dunn says in Carlos Gomez, “There is no more soothing balm than female conversation, because, no matter who comes and goes, another women is there to listen, and in this way we talk our way through life.” Writers like Dunn create the type of hushed conversational bond we have with our girlfriends over coffee using the medium of literature, proving that writing about men and relationships needn’t be trivial, glib, or cutesy. In revealing their experiences through the lens of love these writers create a dialogue with their readers about what it means to be women, fostering community beyond the page. These women bravely tell the truth. They get dirty. And as a reader, I love them for it. As a writer, I’m inspired. I picture myself three months ago as my ideal reader—a young woman eager to reach a deeper place but too scared to take the leap. I am continually inspired to, as my teacher Dinah Lenney often says, “do better.”

After all, I already have.

Dear Beyonce...

Just like those dramatic ex-heroine junkie types say, music really gets me through those hard time in life, man. Lately, I've been listening to a great deal of "power music" a.k.a. "I'm the shit and you're not music," and the greatest song of this genre is, hands-down, Beyonce's "Irreplaceable."

With lyrics that include statements such as, "You must not know 'bout me/You must not know 'bout me/I could have another you in a minute/Matter fact he'll be here in a minute," and questions like, "If I can't be your everything, how 'bout I be nothing?," this song can be sung ballad-style, or shouted, as Meagan and I practiced in the car yesterday afternoon coming home from the Lyon Center after some much-needed Precor-age.

Little does Beyonce know that when M and I are feeling a little (or very) crappy about our love lives (or lack of), or start foolishly reminiscing about a guy who broke (or pureed) our hearts, one of us flips on the iPod, connects the speakers, and the familiar guitar strum fills the apartment. Beyonce's crisp voice seeps into our ears as she begins the song with what has become the Pine Street mantra: To the left, to the left... A dance party ensues and somehow, all seems right in life.

Filled with hope for the future, and utilizing that good ol' 50/50 hindsight, after those glorious four minutes and eleven seconds, we believe that yes, we could totally get another you in a minute. Not that we'd want another you per say, but we are hot, sexy, young, fun, and, um, hello, hilarious, so if anyone should be worried about ending up alone, it's certainly not us.

Anyway. I wish Beyonce could know the role she has played in our lives. That despite such musical blunders as "Single Ladies" (which is a good song in theory but really super annoying to listen to), other tracks like "Irreplaceable," and, let's not forget, "If I Were a Boy," can literally shift my mood from teary to fuck you in a couple minutes flat. If I ever do get the random chance to meet Ms. Knowles, I will surely tell her that her music makes my world a better place.

In the mean time, I'll be humming to myself, to the left, to the left.

Balls to the Walls

Awkward, just plain dumb, or super freakin' brave, you decide: Last night (the particularly unscheduled Sunday kind of quiet evening), I decided to email/message certain males from my past to clear the air, make some requests, and ask some lingering questions that prevent me from enjoying normal brain activity. And, no, I have not been drinking. Really? Yep. Really. Huh. Wow.

I've spent too much of my life tiptoeing around boys, putting what I believe to be their feelings, wants, or expectations before my own, and worrying about being too needy, too demanding, too whatever. Well, dear readers, that era is over.

Naturally, I still believe in being a normal human being, as I have illustrated before on this blog, I'm merely addressing another facet of my kaleidoscopic personality.

Here's my problem: I've either been in relationships in which the guy has selected me, instead of me selecting him, flattering my ego so much that I just go out with him without thinking if he is what I truly want, or I've been so infatuated with the guy I'm dating that I am terrified of messing things up or doing anything that will make him question his decision to be with me, which pretty much paralyzes me into an awkward version of myself where I barely talk and become totally lame. Super fun times, all around.

No more, I say. I'm done walking on the proverbial eggshells. Not just because that's totally unattractive (and who wants to be with a girl who just wants to please her man and be everything he wants her to be anyway), but because it's selling myself short. Sure, if I show who I really am, I risk having my real self rejected. That's really scary.

But, better to be with someone who loves me for who I am, and not morph into some diluted or specially-tailored version of me every time I date a new guy. Am I right, ladies? We've all been there. No? Just me. Oh. (And now I'm stealing material from David Sedaris, awesome.)

This new plan (or life track, if you will) transcends romantic relationships into the ones I have with friends and family. Instead of worrying about other people and putting myself second, or last, however the case may be, I am going to take care of me. We'll see how it goes.

So, there you have it folks. Tiptoeing is so April 2009. I've got my tap shoes on now.

Writing for Moo-Lah. Finally.

I am officially getting paid to write again after about a year of ending my freelance gigs with People magazine and ModernMom.com. Recently, I interviewed Peter Jacobson, who plays Dr. Taub on House. It's not literary, but, hey, it's money. And a lot of fun.

Click here to check out the interview with Peter. And click here to see another piece I wrote for the site about Tamela D'Amico's new jazz CD (produced by Six Feet Under's Peter Krause).

Please note that the photo I am using on the site is indeed one in which I sorta look like a drag queen from dressing up like Posh Spice for Molly's 90s party. Because I am that awesome.

Wow. Really, Natasha? Wow.

I was doing some blog work this morning (check out my new labels and tags, and click my ads so I can make some money from this self-indulgent, rant-filled thing), and I found a draft of a post I was going to put up on Valentine's Day at 2:27 pm but never actually did:

Potential Status Updates:
Natasha Burton either needs to start drinking or buy something she doesn't need.

Natasha Burton is once again reminded that Valentine's Day in fact sucks.

Natasha Burton is spending VDAY exactly as she planned--alone.

These potential Facebook status updates were meant to personify (and broadcast) the type of day I was having (shitty). Of course, I did not have the balls to actually make one of these my status update nor blog about them. Yet, while my Valentine's Day did in fact totally suck, I in no way tried to make it better. Also, I did not notice the glaring red flag/life lesson the day provided. Cryptic, I know, but trust me, I should have figured no flourishing romantic gesture was coming my way. Optimism's a bitch.

In any case, these potential status updates made me laugh, because, as I embark on the journey of singledom for the first time in ten years, I'm learning new things about myself pretty much each day. Today I learned that I can write about red flags all I want, but it doesn't mean I actually see them when they're being waved in my face.

Also, I am super guilty of putting up status updates with a total agenda in mind. I figure it is pretty obvious that I do this, but it's the kind of completely-harmless-to-others-yet-destructive-to-myself behavior that tends to replace my need to actually say what I need to say to people. A fact which I'm sure makes me look pretty lame. I thought this calculated-status-update thing might be considered passive-aggressive, but then I looked up the "signs of a passive aggressive person" on Wikipedia and found that is not the case. But I did find the signs very in-ter-est-ing to (literally) say the least.

Done.

For the first time in, ooh, about 10 years I have a crush on nobody. (This estimate doesn't include the slew of middle school/summer camp heartthrobs. Really, if I were to be completely honest, the last time I for sure did not have a crush on some dumb kid was the summer between second and third grade. Unless I went to camp that summer too...)

Anyway, the point is: For the first time, pretty much ever, I've got no one. No guy. No prospects. No drama. No one to wear dresses for. No one to impress.

I'm sad about this. Not about the lack of someone, but the lack of a very specific someone. The details of what happened are not important, but I will say that this decision was not mine. Was I dumped? Not exactly. You can't be dumped if you weren't someone's girlfriend to begin with (and no, apparently daily contact, flowers on your birthday, candlelit home-cooked dinners, really really good sex, and random funny texts are not signs you are in a real relationship. Lesson learned.)

But I digress. I'm not bitter, and I hope I don't come off that way. Sad, yes. Confused a little, yes. Feeling like a complete idiot for thinking I was in love, most definitely. Still hoping he'll change his mind, of course.

That's the whole problem. I can't help but wonder how much of this relationship was created in my head because of what I wanted it to be. Now, I'm left to wonder what assupmtions I made to convince myself of what exactly we were (aside from the above list).

I just finished reading a philosophy book called The Four Agreements and one of the tenets is to not make assumptions (where this book was five months ago, I would like to know). The author, Don Miguel Ruiz, says we need assumptions because, many of us, me certainly, are too afraid to ask questions: "It is not important if [the answer you seek] is correct; just the answer itself makes us feel safe." When others don't tell us something (or we don't ask), we "make assumptions to fulfill our need to know and to replace the need to communicate."

Over the last few months, questions ran loop in my head. Is this guy my boyfriend? How does he feel about me? So terrified was I that he didn't feel the way I did, yet so hopeful that he could, I was paralyzed. I literally could not bring myself to ask. Though, I guess I can find some comfort in that fact that when I did pose these questions, after he said he couldn't do this anymore (and we were no longer "whatever"), his answer was: "I don't know."

First, to address the glaring issue with this response: I know I cannot be with someone who doesn't know how they feel about me. So as much as I am hurting, I have more respect for myself than to accept that kind of indifference. Love me! Hate me! Something!

Yet, maybe it was better to enjoy the fantasy, that maybe, just maybe, this could be love, for a couple months, than to have known right away that someone who seemed to love me certainly did not. Kidding oneself is bliss.

My new guru DMR had another nugget of wisdom that resonated with me over the past few days: "If someone is not treating you with love and respect, it is a gift if they walk away. Then you choose what you really want. You will find that you don't need to trust others as much as you need to trust yourself to make the right choices."

So, here it is, my choice. No more guys. No more putting myself in a position where I don't know where I stand. No more putting my needs aside so I can make someone else feel good.

Maybe it's about time I fall in love with myself for a change.