I don't know if it's lack of time, or low-grade alcoholism, or the fact that I'm about to turn 40, but in the face of all the gnatty little thoughts that used to concern and consume me, I keep reaching into my wicker basket of fucks and coming up with a fistful of nada.
You don't like my half-assed watercolor seascape?
You don't like the way I breathe when I laugh?
Invest in some noise-canceling headphones, sister. Because I laugh (and breathe). A lot.
You think the estimate is WAY too high for something you could "like totally just do yourself"?
Then guess whose self should "like totally just do it"?
I've got pictures of women with no noses to draw.