Grey is the New White

A few weeks ago I mentioned that I've had other blogs, other spots online that I jotted down my thoughts, my lists, my ridiculousness that I felt I had to chronicle. Those blogs were deleted and resurrected, reshaped so many times...
It's a complex. It's the same complex that makes me buy gorgeous leather-bound journals that are never written in--I don't want to taint the pages. What could I possibly write?
Some call it perfectionism. I call it tiring. And every few months I re-decide to be okay with mistakes. To worship my worn-out jeans instead of the one designer pair of jeans I wear for a half an hour at a time twice a year. It's time again.
I make mistakes. I trip up stairs, and I put my foot in my mouth, and I hurt people. I hurt myself. I do stupid things, I write stupid things, I am made up of some stupid things. But there's value in there, too.
The book Fight Club is all about life's scars--no one should die without them. They are our stories, our triumphs and failures--and I like grey much better than white.
Pure is overrated. Nobody likes a blank page.