I get it. You think you’re clever. But here’s the truth: when I tell you to read my writing, it’s not a friendly little nudge or some kind of casual suggestion. It’s a warning shot. A message fired across the bow, reminding you that this is a choice you’re making, and not one I’m forcing on you. I’m not here to beg you to understand me, my work, or anything else. I don’t owe you an explanation for what I do, how I do it, or why I do it. This is me. You can either accept it, or you can walk away. Simple as that.

See, I’m not offering you some polished, easily digestible product. I’m offering you a glimpse into my mind, raw, unfiltered, and unpolished. You want to know what’s behind the curtain? You want to take a step into my world? Fine, but don’t expect a clean, neat experience. It’s not going to be pretty. It’s going to be jagged, disjointed, and messy as hell. And if that’s not your cup of tea, don’t even bother. But if you decide to step in, you better be ready for what you’re about to find. This isn’t some curated performance designed to make you feel comfortable. This is my reality.

When I say read my writing, it’s like telling you to walk into a minefield blindfolded. I’m giving you the chance to make a conscious decision. Are you willing to risk it? Are you ready to see the chaos behind the door? I’m not holding your hand here. I’m not walking you through it step by step. You’re either brave enough to step forward, or you’re not. But if you decide to take the plunge and open that door, don’t come crying to me when you don’t like what you see. You made the choice. No one forced you.

And here’s the real kicker: I didn’t twist your arm. I didn’t beg you. I didn’t show up at your doorstep asking for your attention. I just gave you the chance. A subtle invitation, a little door cracked open, just enough for you to see what lies beyond. If you missed it, if you didn’t take it, that’s your problem, not mine. You can’t blame me for your laziness, your fear, or your apathy. That’s on you.

But let’s talk about those who did read. The ones who actually decided to open that door. They’re the ones who are brave enough to face the mess, to take in the jagged pieces of my mind. And when they do, they get it. They understand that this isn’t about them. It’s about me. It’s about my voice, my thoughts, my experience. They’re not here to be entertained or spoon-fed. They’re not here for a pretty package with a nice bow on top. No, they’re here for the real thing, the raw and unfiltered truth, however uncomfortable it might be. They know what they’re getting into, and they accept it.

So don’t think for a second that when I tell you to read my writing, it’s some kind of favor I’m doing for you. It’s not. I’m not handing over some carefully crafted narrative just to entertain you. No. When you read my work, you’re stepping into my world, my mind. You’re either welcome in, or you’re not. And if you don’t like it, if it’s not what you expected, that’s your problem. Not mine. I didn’t make this for you. I made it for me. If you want to be part of it, fine. If not, walk away.

But let’s not get it twisted. If you didn’t read, if you didn’t take the time to step through that door, then don’t even think about complaining. Don’t come at me with your excuses, your fabricated reasons why you didn’t bother. Don’t blame me for your lack of interest. That’s all on you. You had the opportunity. I gave it to you. And if you missed it, that’s your loss, not mine. You didn’t even try. So don’t look at me like I’m the one who failed you. No, you failed yourself.

Here’s the thing: when I speak, when I send out my texts or talk to you, it can be like a dyslexic trying to read sometimes. Things don’t always come out the way I intend, and the flow of my thoughts can be all over the place. It’s a bit jarring at times, isn’t it? It’s like my words get tangled up, twisted, and scrambled, and what you’re left with is a mess. But that’s me. That’s how my mind works. And when you read my writing, you might wonder, “Who is this person? Who’s speaking to me?” It’s like I’m two different people sometimes—one person when I speak, another when I write. And hell, even I don’t always understand it. I read my own words and think, “Is this the same person?” It’s like I’m battling two sides of myself, and sometimes, it feels like I’m losing that battle. But you know what? I’m okay with it. I’m comfortable with the mess.

You think you had it tough? Imagine my parents. Imagine my kid. They got the full me—no refined version, no performance ready for prime time. They got the raw, unfiltered, jumbled mess that is me. They didn’t get some polished, carefully curated version of who I am. No. They got all of me, in all my chaotic glory. And it’s not always pretty, not always easy to handle, but that’s the reality. And you know what? They wouldn’t have it any other way. Because that’s the truth. That’s the real me, the one who doesn’t apologize for being complex, for being messy, for being real.

So when you read my writing or listen to me speak, remember this: I’m not here to give you a neat, tidy version of who I am. I’m not here to make you comfortable or give you exactly what you want. I’m here to show you the raw, untamed parts of me. If you’re ready for it, great. If not, that’s your problem. Just remember: you had the choice. You had the chance. And what you do with it is entirely up to you.