rereading my own writing is just a constant fluctuation between “damn, girl, you wrote this? (affectionate)” and “damn, girl, you wrote this? (derogatory)”
I am also “damn, girl, you wrote this? (forgetful)”
last summer I saw a giant moth who had fallen into a water trough, and I gently lifted her out so she could dry her wings and fly away. This was an act of great foresight on my part, as I know that one day, when I am in grave danger and all hope is fading…she will appear, and remember me from long ago, and lift me out of the water trough that I have fallen into. I’m telling you, this moth was huge