The Truth Shall Set You Free

“The Truth Shall Set You Free

I’ve always liked this phrase. I’ve heard it countless times from movies, The Oprah Show, and everyday conversations. Although, I didn’t realize this was a quote from The Bible. (I was born and raised atheist. Now I’m LA spiritual meaning: I own a yoga mat, a few crystals, and I look at the moon more). I didn’t buy a Bible, but I did look it up on the all-knowing google and discovered it’s meaning. So, truth (being Christianity) shall set you free. (Free of sin and misery and all that icky stuff). Okay. Cool. But is there a secular version of this that I can take and run with? 

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Hookin' (Part 2)

My mother was classically beautiful. Her looks were the embodiment of a nice girl. Freely smiling in every picture, exposing her perfect teeth and optimism. She had big, bright eyes that sparkled with charm. But underneath…was something completely different. There was an ugliness. A hatred towards herself. It was so loud she escaped to heroin, abusive men, and excessive spending to silence her demons. She endured an overwhelming emptiness, but nothing could possibly fill the void within. She was never able to love herself, and that torment eventually led to her drug related murder. People have mentioned to me that I look so much like my mother. I especially have her eyes. But do I have everything beneath as well? 

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That Time My Dad Got Arrested (Part 3)

I really thought Patrice was too dumb to leave my dad as if she couldn’t figure out how to use the door handle. Or too dumb in a sense that she even dated him in the first place. Her looks supported my theory. 5’6, bleach blonde hair, super skinny with big fake tits and an airy voice. She was disgustingly cliche. In the beginning, Patrice was obsessed with my dad. Every picture of them together, she would tilt her head and dotingly look at him instead of looking at the camera lens like a normal person. Every. Single. Picture. She called him “Perkinson” because she aspired to be different than all of my other dad’s girlfriends who simply called him by his first name, “Bill.” When Patrice’s father shot himself in the head, she inherited a lot of money and forked all of it over to my dad. We’re talking about hundreds of thousands of dollars. My dad, in return, treated her like a sex slave.

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A letter to 16 year old me

If I could talk to 16 year old Dixie, I would tell her this:

Yes, it sucks right now. No doubt about it. This pain you’re experiencing is some top level shiiiiiit. If the heartache were a tequila, it would be on the top shelf. I would say hold off on the tequila, but I know you won’t. The death of your grandmother is changing you more than ever. More than a drivers license. More than college. Even more than losing your virginity. This feeling. This loss. This pain. This is transforming you into a wise soul beyond your teenage years. You might not realize it, but you’re also crying for your mother. I know you don’t remember her, but you do remember this longing of home. Belonging to something bigger. And this is something you’ll be chasing for years to come.

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