Words.

I just spent the last thirty minutes reading the thoughts of my dearest friends. They're people I admire, people who say funny and profound things, people who make me feel the most myself. I throw a little party when I see a new post or even their comment on someone else's post. I'm that obsessed with their words.

I love words. I've always loved words. Ever since my mom started butchering my English papers with her merciless red pen (when I was twelve, people!), I've had an appreciation for what people write. Umm, I've never been all that interested in what they say; is that terrible? Yes. Yes, it is. Cut me some slack though - I'm working on it. Anyway, I got an English degree to feed my love. My parents spent thousands of dollars so that I could read the words of others and write about them for a grade. I adored it. Every paper. Every book. Well, except Heart of Darkness. And The Sound and the Fury. And I loathe the publisher who took a gamble on anything by James Joyce. But other than that, I loved it all. I was trained to read with a discerning eye, write with an introspective tone, and critique with grammatical perfection. Just try and misuse a semicolon; I'll come after you.

You know what stinks though? All I wanted was to be a good writer. Scratch that... a great writer. I can't tell you how many times I have sat down with a pen and legal pad ready to write the world's next American novel. This again started when I was twelve. But I never got there. I never wrote a novel. I never even got through a short story. Up until just a few minutes ago, I've called myself a failure in writing. Even in the blog world, I have freakishly high expectations of myself. If I don't make myself laugh or cry or think or act, I've failed.

Then I read the words of my friends. In these wee small hours of the morning (is 1am considered wee though? and is that even how you spell wee?), I laugh, cry, think, act. My love for words is touched by those I love. Tonight, for the first time, I realize how valuable that is. Because my words are valuable, too. They allow me to keep trying, to share more of myself, to not give up on that twelve year-old's dream. Their words give my words life because who they are enriches my life.

So thank you, friends, for feeding my soul with your stories and vulnerabilities and perfect views on the world. Perfect because they're genuinely you. And perfect because you wrote them.

Just remember - I don't like it when you talk. KIDDING.