Oops, I Was Too Fucking Much Again

There's always one. Or several.

If you’re like me, you’ve spent way too much of your life nerfing yourself to please other fucking people.

And it’s time you join me for the Fuck That Shit Club and quit doing that.

I had to el-oh-el the other day when I posted about this sweary little newsletter of mine, explaining that plenty of pearl-clutchers hate this sort of thing because it has the word “fuck” in it a lot. And right on cue, in complete and total tone-deafness and with absolutely zero fucking sense of irony, Yet Another White Guy slid into the comments to tell me that…

…are you ready?…

…that “he liked me, but” after he subscribed to a newsletter called Dear Fuckers he didn’t care for all the swearing.

Aside from the expert-level audacity and rank fucking stupidity present in this little anecdote, it’s such a perfect example of one of the absolute fucking truths of life: you cannot and should not try to be for everyone. Fucking ever.

(There’s also a truth in here about middle-aged white guys always assuming we—especially women—want and need their fucking approval and opinions on things especially when we did not ask for them but maybe that’s for another edition).

When I was probably seven or eight, two of the snots on my block made fun of me for having glitter on my purple sweatshirt with a rainbow on it. I mean, did any of you live in the fucking 80s? It was probably impossible to get a sweatshirt that did not have fucking disco-ball, craft-store-explosion levels of glitter on it, especially if it involved an iron-on decal and that was the only fucking kind of sweatshirt that mattered anyway.

But in my foolishness, I put that sweatshirt in a drawer and didn’t wear it anymore because it was too fucking extra for Heather and Becky (not their real names but they might as well have fucking been because again…80s).

I had teachers call me too outspoken because I dared to have an opinion about what we learned and how. I had girls in the high school hallways making moo sounds at me because I was too stacked at 15 to fucking fit into a skinny little cheerleading skirt. I had men tell me I was too high-maintenance because I asked for an ounce of fucking respect and emotional availability.

If I had a dollar for every time I was told I was too fat, too short, too loud, too opinionated, too smart, too intimidating, too sensitive, too emotional, too ambitious, too aggressive, too fucking something I could buy a lot of fucking purple glittered sweatshirts.

And I’m so tired.

But before I declare today a no-bones day and fuck off to watch Point Break and eat cheddar cheese popcorn (because that shit is like a drug as is 1991 Keanu Reaves), I’m going to leave you with a few sparkly little thoughts on why I can now count on one fucking hand the number of people I’m trying to please on any given day.

I have spent a lot of years walking through fire. I have survived a lot of really gnarly shit. A couple of times, I didn’t think I’d see a whole lot more sunrises. And do you know who was there for me every time? Who pulled me out from the ashes and made me get back up and remember who I was and why I was here and that I was worth it because I was fucking breathing that day? Who helped me find my joy and my feminine and my spark and my soul again?

Me. I fucking did that. Me.

So the only person who gets the fucking deciding vote in how I show up in the world every day is the gorgeous bitch looking back at me in the mirror every morning. The one with the too-loud laugh and too-sharp mind and too many stilettos and lipsticks and too much curve on her hip for anything but the most worthy of fucking men to handle.

Occasionally, I will allow input from the precious few people who are there in the darkest, ugliest moments and who cheer when there are victories and who always showed up to bring wine during life’s fucking mental bonfires. From the people who have invested in me and stood fast while I learned to invest in myself.

But They don’t get a vote. The Royal They. You know who I mean.

I stuffed Their fucking opinions in the matched set of Trauma Vuitton Luggage I carted around with me to way too many waystations of fuckery in life and left it behind in the trunk of the battered-up, rusted out, wrecked self-esteem wagon that Too Much Me used to drive.

And if you’d like to hop in to my shiny and slick little Zero Fucksmobile so we can go on adventures and laugh our big laughs and find humor in silly things and take up space and think big, audacious fucking thoughts complete with some blue-streak language once in a while, turns out I’ve got room (but you’ll have to leave that tacky-ass set of Other People’s Useless Fucking Opinions Luggage of yours behind, too, because the only thing we’re hauling with us is fucking triumphant energy this trip).

Stop dulling your shine because some fuckstick without a single, solitary meaningful chip on your life’s table voiced his/her/their disapproval of how you choose move through the world.

Be whatever weird, wonderful, tangled-up, story-worn version of you that keeps that pilot light in your soul flickering. It can’t be a raging inferno of fucking fabulous every day, I know. We’re not all Nathan Lane. But when you lay your head down on that pillow every night, I want you to close your eyes and take a deep breath and know you lived you, unapologetically and imperfectly and owning all that magnificent fucking mess like a purple glitter rainbow sweatshirt from 1983.

And tomorrow, we ride, my sweary-newsletter-approving brigade of chaos minions. The top is down and the music is loud and the concerns for other people’s empty judgment are as absent as adult supervision on the internet.

Bring snacks. Being fucking brilliant works up an appetite.

With love and angst,

Amber

PSA: Today’s post image is from Aaron Reynolds’ fabulous Effin’ Birds, a 2021 Webby Award winner and one of my favorite things to grace the internet in maybe ever. Find books, merch, and more at effinbirds.com.