I am unashamedly gloriously imperfect.
I don’t like yoga (though i’m trying)
I don’t exercise… at all.
I eat when i’m feeling lonely, and have replaced cigarettes with food.
I get jealous.
I can be gossipy and judgmental.
I beat myself up, often.
I have days when all i want to do is lie down on the sofa.
I forget to brush my teeth sometimes.
I have cellulite… everywhere.
I hate shaving my legs.
I’d rather eat fish ‘n’ chips than drink a wheatgrass shot.
I can work all day in my dressing gown and think nothing of it.
I don’t always love myself.
I swear a LOT.
I’m doing the best I can.
I make people laugh.
I tell it like it is.
I don’t know how to bullshit people.
I have big dreams.
I love kissing.
I walked through fire and survived.
I’m learning how to forgive myself.
I like scary films.
I bring people together.
I have double-jointed shoulders.
I see what others might miss.
I like giving presents.
I am an auntie.
I am a daughter.
I am a sister.
I am a friend.
In other words, i’m too busy being a vibrant, contrary, fleshy, determined, silly, passionate, unique human being to be perfect.
And that is okay with me.