Sometimes the Plot Requires Me to Be a Little Feral

I’d like to formally apologize to the responsible version of myself.

She tries so fucking hard.

She makes plans. She thinks about consequences. She tries to be financially responsible. She tells herself things like, “Maybe we should sleep on it,” and “We probably shouldn’t make major decisions based entirely on vibes.”

And then there’s me.

The other me.

The one who occasionally wakes up and decides that today feels like a fantastic day for character development.

No plan.

No warning.

Just vibes, caffeine, questionable judgment, and a tiny voice in my head whispering:

Do it. It’ll be funny.

And unfortunately, sometimes that’s all the convincing I need.

I have spent entirely too much of my life overthinking every single fucking thing.

I analyze texts.

I analyze conversations.

I analyze situations that happened six months ago like I’m presenting evidence before a federal grand jury.

I can turn one slightly different tone of voice into a 14-part documentary series inside my head.

So every once in a while, something inside me just fucking snaps.

Not in a “burn my entire life to the ground” way.

More like a:

“Fuck it. Put your shoes on. We’re going.”

kind of way.

And honestly?

I need those moments.

I need the random drives with absolutely no destination.

I need the last-minute plans.

I need the nights where I laugh so hard my stomach hurts.

I need the occasional spontaneous purchase that Future Me will stare at on the bank statement and whisper, “You stupid bitch.”

I need to randomly decide I’m changing my hair.

I need adventures that weren’t penciled into my calendar three weeks in advance.

I need stories that begin with:

“Okay, before you judge me…”

Because somewhere along the way, I realized there’s a difference between being reckless and allowing yourself to actually fucking live.

And maybe I’m never going to be the perfectly composed woman who has everything planned out.

Maybe I’ll always have a little chaos running through my veins.

Maybe I’ll always occasionally look at a perfectly reasonable situation and think:

But what if we made this slightly more interesting?

That doesn’t mean I want to destroy my life.

I’ve fought too damn hard to build it.

It just means sometimes I need to remind myself that I’m more than responsibilities, deadlines, expectations, and survival mode.

I’m still a person.

I’m still allowed to have fun.

I’m allowed to be spontaneous.

I’m allowed to make harmless questionable decisions purely because they’ll make a phenomenal story later.

I’m allowed to be a little fucking feral.

And honestly, some of my favorite memories have come from moments when I stopped asking myself a million questions and just said:

Fuck it. Let’s go.

Were all of those decisions intelligent?

Absolutely fucking not.

Would I recommend every single one of them?

Also no.

Did some of them result in me sitting somewhere the next morning drinking coffee and staring into the distance thinking, Well… that certainly happened?

Without question.

But that’s the thing about me.

I’m never going to be perfectly polished.

I’m never going to have every answer.

Sometimes I’m responsible.

Sometimes I’m emotional.

Sometimes I’m soft as hell.

Sometimes I’m held together by caffeine, dark humor, and pure fucking audacity.

And sometimes my frontal lobe clocks out early and leaves the feral version of me in charge of operations.

She probably shouldn’t have unrestricted access to adult money.

But damn, does she know how to make life interesting.

I’m learning that healing doesn’t have to mean becoming boring.

Growing up doesn’t mean I have to stop being spontaneous.

Having responsibilities doesn’t mean every second of my existence has to be responsible.

Sometimes I can just exist.

Laugh too loudly.

Take the drive.

Stay out too late.

Go somewhere unexpected.

Do something ridiculous.

Collect another story.

Because after spending so much of my life simply trying to make it through the hard shit, I don’t want to spend the rest of it afraid to actually live.

So yes.

Sometimes I’m spontaneous.

Sometimes I’m chaotic.

Sometimes I’m a little unhinged.

And every once in a while, I release myself into the wild with approximately three functioning brain cells and absolutely no adult supervision.

But I’m making memories.

I’m finding pieces of myself again.

I’m laughing.

I’m living.

And if you get a text from me that says,

“Don’t ask questions. Just put some clothes on and get in the car.”

You have two options.

Come along for the side quest…

or mind your fucking business.

The Girl Behind the Chaos