This Weird Girl

It’s me. Hi. I’m the problem. -Taylor Swift, Anti-Hero

No, really. I’m the problem. I’m too much.

I talk too much, say too much, share too much, laugh too loud, think too creatively, write too much. I’m constantly aware of how too-much I am and have to pull myself back.

God, I have so much potential in this life. If I could unlock the safety gates, I’d shine like a comet and blow everyone away from me with the tail.

I have a bazillion words to say; I am overwhelmed. I’ve lost count how many times I wrote something and backspaced it away. I’m a frickin’ pressure cooker. When the valve hisses for a few minutes, the people in the kitchen scatter. They’re too afraid to cook with me. And it’s not always anger, fire and brimstone. I’m stopped up with sparkles, rainbows, sunshine and brilliance. One person once said, “Angela could make a diamond look dirty.” In other words, I shine extra bright.

This post was much longer. I deleted most of it.

I’m pretty sure everyone would live a happier life if I just stopped speaking.

Backspace. Disappear.

I’m just too much.

P.S. I’m not suicidal. I actually really love my life.