Feedback can be painful to receive but it’s important to both accept it and refuse to be paralyzed by it. I’m pretty self-aware and I definitely know my limitations. Recently, I have heard from people who think I should continue sharing my struggles with anxiety and other life stuff despite my preference of writing about dogs, food, and fashion. I have been told the way I write about things which truly suck really resonates with people. Well I am GenX af so there’s that.
I attended I Dream in Widescreen at the Fox Tucson Theatre Saturday night and went in expecting some cute short films made by college students that would probably require lots of whiskey to enjoy. The films were terrific and they were far from cute. The subject matter was quite heavy and there were a couple that really punched me in the gut. If I had known in advance, I would have gone into the theatre completely sober. Drunk me was unprepared for being confronted with the lowest point of my life.
I started a Google Doc at the end of the event to blog about that day but my phone refused to cooperate with my drunk fingers. At the time, I didn’t want to forget whatever sentences my mind found brilliant in that moment. Spoiler alert: Those sentences were not brilliant and I will not be sharing them here. I’m not even sure if I will be sharing them with my therapist.
The day in question is obviously one I will never forget but it rarely crosses my mind. My grandmother always said (completely unironically) that there’s no use crying over spilt milk and she was right. But then I read a more in-depth piece about the price people pay for surface acting and it makes sense that sometimes the shit just comes right out. My liver, hardest hit.
I’m not one to allow feelings to ruin a perfectly good buzz so I did what any grown-up would do; I went into the restroom, fixed my makeup, and got on with my night like a fucking boss.