Fuck the world a new face, friends.

Dear sweet world, you clearly forget who I am. And I must say, momma dragonfly is very disappointed in you. You should bite your tongue.
I AM magical.
I AM conquering the world.
I AM your Mona fucking Lisa incarnate and personified.
I am your fucking muse. Utilize me as such. But don't fall in love with me. One way or another, I'll always be claimed for the rest of my life here and again. It's how this crazy little thing called love works.

Ah, the ramblings of a mad woman. You're probably confused. I should probably produce a bit of a back story.

Once upon a time in the frozen tundra of Western New York, I had sex. I woke up one day and realized I needed to get the hell out of dodge. Everything I loved about there was either gone or no longer what it used to be. My favorite late night diner had closed down three times over and finally demolished. My friends had all been tainted by anger, drugs, alcohol, and depression. When it was all over everybody had changed in to a shell of their former selves. I got on a Greyhound bus and didn't look back. And where do I wind up? Arkansas. You'd think that the small town of Pea Ridge would be a tad different to what I was used to. The only difference aside from geological location seems to be that they don't sell beer where I live. Benton County is a bit of a dry county. After being down here at my mother's house for a bit of time I had discovered I was pregnant. Well, fuck me sideways. That was a bit of a small surprise. In light of the fact that I really didn't feel that abortion was right for me in this case, I stuck it out. I didn't feel I was proper for motherhood material so I went the route of adoption. Months later, a 6 pound 4 ounce and 20 inch long baby boy named Dawson came in to the world with a bit of a surprise and an abrupt scream. I hear that's a good sign with babies born premature. My water broke on the 12th of November at 7pm. Contractions started somewhere between midnight and 1am the next day. By 8:50am on November 13th, he was already bitching for a bottle. That's my boy. Or rather, that was my boy. Now he's Kortney's. I honestly wouldn't have that any other way.  Before you get all judgmental I had discussed this with the other half of this kid's genetics. I'm still going to be in his life. I just knew that I wasn't ready for motherhood and I wasn't going to put a newborn baby, especially the spawn of my own womb, through my damage. He has his own life to live with his new family.

There's a couple thing nobody tells you about childbirth. Nobody tells you that a contraction feels like the worst menstrual   cramps known to woman. Nobody tells you that giving birth feels like you're trying to drop a deuce. Nobody tells you that there's a likelihood that you'll actually drop a deuce on the delivery bed. Nobody warns you that an epidural is actually really fucking cold. They also don't tell you that you're almost promised stitches in some form after your first child, or that passing a placenta feels kind of like having another baby. When your water breaks it's rarely a gush like on television. You will more than likely not realize your water broke and you'll just think you wet yourself. They also seem to neglect that childbirth changes you even if you don't keep the child. I won't lie. That was the most painful and adult decision I've ever made. I was born in Virginia in '87 but I grew up in Mercy Medical in Rogers, Arkansas in '10.

In changing, they also fail to give you some kind of instruction manual. "So You've Just Given Birth And You Need To Move Forward. What Now?" This book should exist. Since it doesn't, I had to just kind of fly by the seat of my pants. I moped around the house. I did some therapeutic shopping. I reenlisted myself to the digital social life. I had some alcohol. I took some anti-anxiety pills and some sleeping pills to get some rest. And then something happened.

I woke up after fighting with myself and I realized I did something a good parent does. I gave my son the chances that he deserves. I also woke up and realized I shouldn't be depressed or sad over the fact that I did something I feel was right. In waking up I had realized that I am now a shell. It's time to take this wreckage and find the silver lining. It's time to rebuild. It's time to get up and move like a mack truck. I need a pulse. I'm not meant to be a lifeless android. I'm only 23. My glory days are far from over.

I will be in college before next year is up.
I will have a car and a job.
I will get back in to drawing, even if it's for just an hour a day.
I will find joy in colors and music again.
I will create something worth holding on to from this mess.
I will stay alive and in rather decent health if for no other reason than the fact that someday there will be a small boy knocking at my door wondering what led me to my decisions.

I'm still in love with love. I still have a bit of a vagabond streak in me. I'll still be a little bit crazy. I'm still going to make flowers out of sheet music and doodle monsters in the corner of my notes. I'm coming back with a vengeance. Like it or not, this won't defeat me. That would just be silly.