It’s almost 10 years that I started this page.
Sometimes I don’t even recognize the girl who began all of this . It’s funny to think Pussyrant really is just a memoir of my 20s.
Originally, this all started merely out of fun, inspired by boobs and loubs (iykyk) Convincing myself that I could do that, I could story tell my life. All I needed was me, myself and I.
As soon as the voyage began, the plan of course shifted as an outlet to cope with my then break up. But within that healing, love found me. That adventure quickly changed my style of writing. Evolving through inspiration, through flirtatious games, through another’s point of style.
Then life got comfortable.
Time went on and I only revisited this platform through times of pain and anger. I felt it was the only way I could be seen, that I could be heard.
Slowly but surely I resented what this page symbolized.
I was no longer the girl who could story tell about a blazer that smelled like onions. I was no longer the girl who could freely write without having to study every line to make sure it rhymed.
I became a girl writing to someone rather than for myself.
Now I lie awake in the middle of the night writing my rants in my head that never reach the pen. Telling myself I’ll start the next morning, the next day, the next week, the next year?