The Skin You’re In

I am bamboozled. Perplexed. Confused. I am exhausted, and I should know better than to take on too much.

I am not a salesperson. I lack the savvy. Some would say I simply lack the determination, but those people would be wrong. I have droves of determination. I am just not willing to try to push people into buying something that they may or may not be able to afford to buy.

Could I afford to buy into my latest enterprise? On one level, yes. But on another level, not really. I’ve already been taxed with a schedule that leaves me exhausted. On top of that, I am trying to raise my lovely daughter essentially on my own. On top of that, some would argue that I am often disabled by my mental illnesses.

Do I love those people who can sell? Absolutely, I admire them. I think it’s fantastic that they have people eager to buy from them and the support of their peers. I come off, however, sounding insincere. And to an extent, I was.

Who in their right mind would want to use Buffalo Bill to sell skincare? C’mon girls, he will simply crave the skin you’re in. That was my latest and greatest idea, which was partially when I realized I should be writing horror novels instead of attempting to make paltry and ineffective sales attempts.

So will I continue to buy the products? When I can afford them, absolutely. I already see a difference in my skin. Will I try to sell them? That I will leave to the professionals.

I have had heart palpitations for a week straight. They continue for longer intervals of time every day. I need to find the answer to this, as it’s Father’s Day. And I lost my own father to a heart attack in 2002.

And the more I thought about my own mortality this week, the more I realized I should be writing. Instead of trying to sell a product, I should be learning to market myself. Some would caution that it is one life, and I would really, REALLY like to have at least one book finished during the span of it.

So tonight, one short blog. Tomorrow, the world! I was told to keep writing by a few people this week, and I think that is the direction the universe is steering me in. As much as I hate to be a disappointment to anyone, especially people I admire, this is something that I have to do.

Three people, actually. It was three people who told me I should be writing. And three is my lucky, OCD number. Three is the number of sisters that I have–three is the number of female creatures currently living with me in my house.  Three is the number of anxiety disorders I have. Three is the number of prescription medications I am on. Three is a great number, even if it is odd.

And now, with my pulse all funky, I shall retire. I will keep on posting. You all do what you have to do to make the world turn.

And remember that your skin is your largest organ, so for God’s sake, you should be comfortable in it.

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