THURSDAY, AUGUST 26, 2010
The ability to hold two conflicting emotions without trying to stop the discomfort, or, to be still in acknowledgement, according to mental health experts, is “emotional maturity.” For example, I feel so unnerved, vulnerable, and naked in my skin for exposing my blemished upbringing, and for sharing the difficulties of my life choices. The opposing emotions push me forward by my desire to be understood, and by the part of me that feels like my life depends on it. So here I see-saw between two distinctly different emotions-related to how I feel about writing. I guess the good news is, I can tell myself I am emotionally maturing-if anything else.
This past week, (after my last post), was hard on me emotionally. I became extremely sensitive, scared, and childlike in my behaviors. For starters, I became defensive when a good friend, (someone who loves me-who wants only good things for me) handed out a little constructive criticism about my writing. Additionally, I became so jealous, and hurt (like a crushing gut pain) when my love tucked a piece of another woman’s hair behind her (the woman’s) ear at a party. (That was like pouring citric acid in my already gushing wound. I had just written about my mother never making that same loving gesture towards.) I felt defeated, raw and afraid of everything hurting. I became paranoid (Im still coming off that one), I started projecting my own story as to what people thought about me. I believed people were avoiding me, maybe some were, but I also felt proud of my work and my ability to affect people, so onward I trudge.
I suppose if you are reading this you are right there with me, or else you are reading this to judge me, either way, I am forced to be OK with it, I don’t really have a choice. One of the hardest parts about putting myself “out there” is the silence. It’s as if the more I share intimate details, the quieter my readers become. Have you all just stopped reading? Well, even if you have, I made the decision to write regardless, regardless of how I feel, and whether or not I have an audience.
I am going to continue on with my story because I enjoy the process, it’s liberating and I like the rush.
In the apartment:
The first time I started writing about the apartment I was still on the plane back from Park City. I made my way back to seat 35C after braving the bathroom. I passed a dozen or so people engrossed in their own thoughts, dreams etc. There were some with their mouths open, others eyeing me down-looking for a connection, and some avoided my eyes. I peaked inside the pit of a memory. I caught myself in the soap splattered mirror and immediately saw all the sadness. In a brief moment, I asked myself out-loud in the narrow stall, “What happened to you and why?” I answered back, speaking to my dead grandmother. “Maw Maw, please tell me that did not happen to me!” I knew Maw Maw couldn’t answer me, but she was/is my savior. I am not really sure what I was asking myself or what I thought happened, but my gut tells me someone may have crossed my boundaries. In saying so, I am not necessarily saying someone physically harmed me, but my mother definitely subjected me to things not suitable for a child.
She once told me a story about an event that took place in the old apartment. Supposedly, my grandmother pulled me from my mothers arms out of a closet. My mother locked us in during one of her downhill trips on Angel Dust Lane. She was holding me while screaming and crying, knocking around in the darkness. My mother went to drug rehabilitation after that incident-guess it wasn’t a very good program. Thankfully, I have no recollection of that event.
Those nights in the apartment when my mother was away I did a lot of thinking for a four years old little girl. I have this one memory of being in my bed with my knobby, little knees curled up tight to my chest. I had a conversation with myself, wondering if I was dreaming. I thought I might wake up to find one or two scenarios. The first: I hadn’t born yet, and the second, I am already an adult. It’s almost as if I was looking for a way out, or realized at a young age that things weren’t right-start over, or skip childhood all together.
I recall that being the first time I actually felt distinctly separate from my body. I allowed my mind and emotions drift off somewhere else, I learned how to disassociate and completely protect myself emotionally from my mother. I managed to lose, although out of necessity, the sacred innocence of a little girl that night. I discovered early on how to detach from people, and how to manipulate in order to have my needs met. Unfortunately, those characteristics followed me into adulthood-where I no longer need them to survive.
I am searching for my inner sweet girl-the one who transcended her situation the best way she knew how. For me, I must move through her (my) experiences by writing about them, hopefully finding forgiveness, and understanding. If you support me, please let me know! If not, don’t pretend to be my friend. If it all just makes you too uncomfortable but you want to be my friend, just tell me. If you only read this to mock or judge me, well then, that ones on you.
Posted by shannon katz at 11:32
FRIDAY, AUGUST 20, 2010
There was a deep, slow moving swarm in my stomach as our flight departed Salt Lake City, Utah. I was headed back to Atlanta after an amazing four-day weekend with my “Running Girls Group,” in Park City. Each year for the past few years we have used destination half-marathon races as an excuse to get away. That trip was so much more for me, it was a moment with God, not a God of dogma, but a real connection with my essence. I glimpsed my pure, perfect self and I felt the living energy that tethers us all, and it prompted me to write.
The mountains in Park City were so powerful, hushing me with a silent order to exhale. This was the start of the half-marathon, and also the finish line of my uncertainty. The trip occurred during a very precarious point in my life, I was starting to feel a different side of myself. The girls weekend commenced on the heels of me questioning my sexuality, and if there was any left at all-I was shut down. The weekend was not only served as an escape hatch, it also became an opening.
I started to think about divorce, and my mother, which brought up a lot of memories. My mother left her mark on marriage number two of four when she decided to leave Bill and move to Texas. She met him in a bar when I was two years old. He was a passionate man with a temper equally volatile to my mother’s. AS with the marriage to my father,this one was short lived and full of life , but in this case it was suctioned out in a pitiful, stale clinic. She later told me how her choice wounded Bill to the core, I guess the mangled tissue wasn’t enough to keep them together. Maybe that’s why he drank so furiously, to quench the unborn thirst, and to drown in something other than the fighting between them. I often wonder if her decision was the trigger that pushed her through the looking glass and into the world of insanity.
Bill looked vulnerable and his energy was strangely familiar to her, and she was desperately alone. He was troubled himself, but he rode high on the blemished ego of his own saddle-he had game. He was a sensitive, quiet, introspective mechanic, but his demons were wicked drunks. She charmed him with her innocent, devil may care looks. Without hesitation, she exposed his weaknesses and seductively licked his emotional wounds. It wasn’t long before they eloped at the county courthouse-not an unusual wedding, as she flashed her bright teeth. To this day she maintains that he really did love me, they were young and the problems reeked of distrust.
She left my father too when she was only nineteen, I assume they had some of the same issues, youthful ignorance, and her mental instability. We moved to my grandmothers house after their divorce, my grandmother had just been through a divorce of her own. My grandmother started a new career in modeling, which gnashed and gnawed away at the remainder of my mother’s self esteem. I was a mistake that couldn’t be undone and I was a daily reminder of her carelessness.
After she and Bill married we moved into another shabby apartment. There was a wooden counter that divided the kitchen from the mirrored dining room/den of our shagged out, circa 1970 place. The long ploy blend carpet fibers looked like a billion, blazing suns at dusk, all pebbled with tiny green and brown seeds. The seeds would roll off his Coca Cola tray that pictured a lady with a wide brimmed straw hat, smiling coolly. “Have a Coke and a smile!” His tray was a permanent fixture on the bar, I would sit up high on a cheep walnut bar stool watching him. He rolled with pride even though his hands were stained with black grease, and his fingers were bloodied. He worked methodically, meticulously, constantly rolling as his eyes peered past his curled mustache. He always ended with a slow, soft, wet kiss across the delicate, iridescent paper. Finally, the light of a flame, and scented smoke curtained the air.
Bill and I stayed home most nights together while my mom worked in the club. After the light had worn the day away, she headed into darkness, racing her Pinto around the corners. She was a tassel-wearing dancer at a local night-club. (I remember finding pictures of her in the tassels when I was eleven years old, the sequined costume was cat eye-green. The photographs left me at once, mystified, mortified, a little turned on, and disgusted.) I don’t know who nourished and cared for my soul during that part of her/my life, but I have no recollection of ever having my hair gently pushed behind my ears at night. I think about this a lot when I gesture my love for my daughter when I play with her hair. My mother was on her own plane, fueled by narcotics and alcohol, and chaos was her final destination.
Posted by shannon katz at 12:55 PM
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 18, 2010
A friend asked me today why I felt the need to share my story with so many people (but not in those words.) She told me I was brave and courageous for sharing the intimate details of my life, but behind those remarks I saw the why? In addition, she told me that she saw two things in my writing, one, I’m hard on myself and two, pain about something from the past. She was right, I’m still hanging on although, slowly inching up and away from my old fears and wounds.
The process started a few years ago but I didn’t actually start writing about it until last summer. I couldn’t ignore the emotional ditch I built around myself, nor could I accept all the psychological obstacles from the past. I wanted to get away from myself, and climb out of my self imposed misery. I have been longing to purge my story for over ten years, and I simply could not repress it anymore.
A close friend and I decided to take a writing journey together, we started a writing club, if you will. We made a pact to write every week, fearlessly sharing and critiquing each others work- a safe haven, a catharsis for us both. We each had the desire to write, but also our own fears. Together we decided to find the courage to get it out and on the page. Although we started from the same place, we had different reasons for our unwillingness to succumb to complacency. We were/are in search of our own personal growth, and though we decided to take this leap together, we are ultimately alone, and that is true for all of us.
I made the decision to crawl may way, if need be, out of the trenches of my broken-words and will; and fight to find peace within myself. I knew it was and still is going to be tough to break myself down to nothing, to release layer, upon layer of the thick past on my reptilian brain. I knew I had to open some rusty old doors of old memories in order to set myself free. The need for change was tugging at my sleeve as if my limbs were out-growing my worn out clothes.
I was born and raised in Atlanta, and it has been hot here in the summertime for as long as I can remember. In the summer of 1978 my Mother decided that we (She and I, her friend and her friends daughter were moving to Houston, Texas.) My Mother drove one of those 1970′s Ford Pintos, the dangerous ones with combustible rear engines. I was around four years old, and I remember how my momma bragged about that car being “Candy Apple Red,” with “White Vinyl upholstery.” She drove herself and the car into the ground after she left her second husband, Bill, and headed for Texas.
It was the dawn of disco and cocaine, the law didn’t require children under a certain age to ride in a car seat or use a seat belt even, because I remember being tossed all around the back-seat of that car. My legs were all sticky and wet as I slid from side to side on the vinyl all throughout the trip. The salt just caked up on my legs from the sweat of the day, and the heat of the seats. The floor-board rattled with pink tab cans and food wrappers. At one point I tried climbing down in the debris as to escape the slip and slide seats, but the polyester floor mats were warm from the asphalt and the rev of her engine. The only air conditioning we knew was from the windows being rolled all the way down, therefore your hair got all tangled and ratty. She was determined to get to Houston, come “Hell or High Water!”
My Mother was like a kindling flame, it only took a certain spark to send her in one direction or another- her blood ran hot, and she was easily influenced. Her eyes were green as a garden snakes and had that same cold, yet wild uninhibited look. She was twenty-two at the time, but her darkness seemed timeless. Her hair was like gold silk; long, straight and stringy, but she was beautiful. Her unseen burden was heavy for her tiny frame, she was no more than 100 pounds, but her temper out weighed her. Her skin was fair with speckles on her dainty features, she always seemed so small to me, even when I was a child. Her smile was broad, yet one could not help notice her disturbed and haunting laugh. It was as if she looked right through you and then the bellow of disguise would erupt.
For the trip west (far away from her thoughts, where she thought she could out run herself) she armed me with a 24-pack of Crayola Crayons and a few drug store coloring books. When I ran out of pages to color, I started using the backs of the white seats as my canvass. They were so smooth and enticing with a creamy emptiness, I could have just melted into them. She spanked me really hard that day, calling me “Shannon Dina,” as her voice deepened and distorted. My tiny fingers worked furiously, scrubbing the periwinkle scribble-scrabble; and my tears and sweat merged into a salty sea, as she boiled over and unleashed her fury.
When I start to recall everything, my life with her from the beginning, it always fills my eyes and runs down my cheeks-staining mascara like a grim trail. Some of my memories are mangled and torn, yet others are like old projector movies- clicking away. Last summer, thirty one years later, I was ready to start unearthing my past.
I remember when I first started writing about my experiences with her, my ears were popping because I was on an altitude climbing air-bus. The little girl in row 35, seat C kept looking back at me, anxiously batting her ocean eyes. My aisle seat was not very private, nor was I, nor am I still making any attempts at hiding anything, anymore!
So to answer the question “why?”, is to say that I am on a self navigated mission to spread and share my truths. My sweet love, S, once said, “Shedding light makes things smaller.” My plan is to shine on all the short pages in my life , I want the ways in which they hurt to shrivel. I want to record new messages that say I am loved enough, smart, good, safe, and deserving enough to matter.
I have a story to tell, and I starting with you, my theory is this: if I can brave baring my soul to family, friends, loved ones, neighbors and so forth; that my confidence will build and my courage will strengthen. And one day I will will set myself free to fly higher than I’ve ever flown before! My mission, duty, calling is to write and connect with all sorts of people on as many different levels as possible. I have a story to tell, and it starts with me.
Posted by shannon katz at 10:47PM
THURSDAY, AUGUST 12, 2010
The resentment bounces to and fro like a ping pong ball in a tournament for attention. I, by my own choices and free will, am responsible for always finding that perfect balance, while at the same time trying to please so many people. There are times, however, I think I am only trying to find harmony for my own accord, but that middle ground cannot be reached unless I adhere to others. Basically, my personal standards require me to give enough of myself to my children, my lover; and at times, to his needs as well. (In that order.) I push and pull myself in so many directions that I at times resent all of them, but in the end I know it was all in the making. I want to do right by everyone, then and only then, am I truly (even if only for intellectual reasons) temporarily content.
Saturday night, I rested peacefully in her arms absorbing the feeling of her skin against mine. Her temples smelled like the sweetest sugar, rock-candy and the specks in her eyes danced with an ember light-she was all I knew. In that moment, I was peeled and unfurled, my eyes brimmed with tears, as I buried my face in the soft spot above her collar bone. The crease, the small space speaks to me, it heals and nurtures me (and it did so, when only my eyes could touch her.) I didn’t want to leave her, and I cried for what I couldn’t give her, and for how much of herself she gives me. I cried for the person she loves in me, I cried for the person she lets me be, with all of my truths and ugly scars. I cried for what we can’t have right now, and how she deserves more. I felt honored, but I also felt this inner nudge of self- I was becoming, and I cried for choosing so well.
We had been together for two days and I knew our time was coming to an end. She had been quiet that day, or as she would say “muted,” but I sensed that she was thoughtful. The following day he was leaving for a business trip, and I was getting the kids for an extended stay. Our gears were about to shift with rote direction, I would go back to being Mommy,and she would go back to her single life. We (She and I) have certain rules which apply when the “litluns” are around, some spoken, others not. For instance, we don’t have “spend the nights”, or late nights- we compartmentalize. When the children are with me we go back to being just “friends.” I go from the high of her emotional bakery of confectioners delight, to crashing and leaving, all traces of frosting behind. I leave her as I found her, (she, always the good-girl, helping everyone, and me, always constructing everything around me) and I hate it, but it works.
A different “he,” a friend, said, “She must be really patient,” and he was right, she is that and so much more. I couldn’t have designed a better person for me, she challenges my internal operations and adds heart where I am lacking. I picked someone who would endure putting my children first for the greater good. She holds me accountable when I want to break my own rules (because I get philosophical and reckless) and then “apologize for them later”. Basically, to her own detriment, or out of her unconditional love for me, she always puts us (me and the kids) first… and I love her for it; and I love that I was able to choose someone so amenable to my growth.
The night I cried thankful tears for all the ways she loves me, I was also grieving the loss of those feelings -when I am back to hands-on motherhood. I told her that it was like going from one extreme to another, from being completely full and over-flowing, to being sucked dry and then to have more asked of you. Now you may be saying, wait, how can you feel sucked dry when you don’t have your kids full-time. Well the answer is in my human place, or / ego mind that over compensates for what I perceive as lacking. Meaning, my guilt about being separated from my children throws me into motherhood with a fierce determination, thereby trying to accomplish 7 days in 3.5 days.(Including but not limited to, affection, discipline, connection, routine, respect, etc.) In any event, it wears me down and that night I was saddened by the thought of having to re-place her with that feeling. (Hormones probably, fucking PMS always playing her part.) Seriously, back to what I was saying, and I hope my point isn’t lost or distorted by my rant, but she made me see myself in that moment.
She said, “They give back to you, you get to brush their hair, and kiss and snuggle them.” I understood instantly what she meant, and even when I said it- I knew it was just a momentary interpretation of giving v/s receiving. From her vantage point, I had two other loves from which to give and get, and sometimes the getting is in the giving, and the giving is in the getting. Either way, there’s a balance to it, and at times I wont always get it right, but for the most part I do. I know what I know, and I know that love is big, big enough to conquer any resentments, guilt, or experiences perceived in the human condition. And I say, good night.
Posted by shannon katz at 11:32 PM
TUESDAY, AUGUST 3, 2010
“Shared Custody,” what a strange term- what a foreign, unnatural feeling to parent my children part-time. They are not just my children, although they did enter this world via MY vagina. I carried them in MY uterus for 10 months, MY body labored for hours prior to their arrivals, I nursed them for a year from MY breast; and yet they are still not completely mine.. (It makes me realize how nothing is really mine, or any of ours for that matter!)
My emotions battle my logic when it comes to dual-parenting. I understand that without HIM the children wouldn’t exist, but I feel slightly more entitled as a parent, per the lamenting above. However, there is also this other place that wants to claim stake of the children for reasons I assume relate to guilt, societal pressures, or by some other selfish qualifiers. The point I’m trying to make is this: Sometimes I wonder if all of my wanting is really for me and not for them.. Don’t get me wrong, I do strongly believe that children need their mothers love on a more primal level than their Fathers, but I also think Mothers need their children too- much more than Fathers need them. Birthing a child is essentially birthing an extension of ourselves, therefore, our inclinations point inward.
Internally, I wrestle with wanting my children, wanting what’s best for them, wanting to be fair to their Father, and enjoying the time I have for myself. I don’t know the right answer, but what I do know is that children need to be loved by both parents-regardless. However, there are times I staunchly believe they should live with me full-time, but this feeling comes with so many other sub categories. I will admit, I do, I really do enjoy the freedom part-time parenting offers. I like being a Mother, but it doesn’t define me or complete me the way it does other women. (Maybe those women who say “Motherhood” completes them are just not able to face what I am describing.) I know I love my children just as much as the next, but I have this built in need for autonomy. It’s all such a convoluted cluster of thoughts and emotions, who knows, maybe I am just trying to cope.
There is this other whole other realm I am privy too as well in this “part-time parenting” circus. It looks something like this: living the antithetical life, yet with one constant that never changes- I am a Mother. Although I may not have custody on a Monday, and I’m lost in the abyss of my girlfriends eyes, I’m still a Mother- that feeling doesn’t go away. My children stay with me; and my ultimate commitment is to them first. (This is where I drop the self deprecation because I know that as a Mother, my heart belongs to them selflessly, and I have proven that to myself- I’m not like my Mother, which is a BIG fear. (This is a whole other story, and one I struggle with more than anything else possibly in my life, and yes, you will get a piece of that too!) Every pawn I move, how I court the queen, and how I went about no longer serving the king, have all been done with respect for my children- and that is why I am a proud Mother.
I honor the person I am becoming, I understand the difference between the default versions of me, and who I really am- Im that same little girl I’ve always been, just a little more tarnished. My little spirit is set on maintaing my integrity (what works for me) by doing what is right for my children, whatever that custody arrangement looks like. I can parent my children 3.5 days a week, but I will, and always do Mother them. Sweet Dreams
Posted by shannon katz at 9:
TUESDAY, JULY 27, 2010
Here I go, full exposure… Shall I communicate my needs to you, or shall I continue living in an isolated mental space? I desire to be understood on a deeper level, to be known other than how I see myself. Relationships are interesting how they teach you so much about yourself. I learned that I really do know how to brick my yellow road… whether intentionally or not. I built a life- a life I thought I wanted, only to tear it down. I deconstructed the pieces and found my fears. It was all an illusion, I blew smoke in the mirrors as not to see myself. I thought I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, to make it on my own- I thought I needed a man to do it all for me. What I learned was that ultimately my fears were not enough for me to stay. I picked the perfect person, a man who would have never left me- I was safe, but in that safety I itched like a bird on a wire.
Tonight in the restaurant she talked about how I was “broken” but she couldn’t fix me. I explained that I was not broken, only changed. To say “broken” is to imply a judgement. There is no room for judgement in change, nothing ever stays the same except for change. I didn’t break my family, I changed it to better fashion the conditions- I reconciled it the best way I could. I confronted my own lie and once I did, I couldn’t look away. I did not love myself and I blamed everyone else for the discomfort I felt in my skin. I did not want to be that girl anymore, the girl prodded by her fears, and paralyzed by her insecurities.
As I write I am listening to a lullaby, a song that reminds me of my children. I am reminded of how every decision we make in life impacts others in one way or another. It saddens me to think about my children- their innocents. They were always, and will remain a part of my future. I made that happen for myself and I am proud to have chosen such a wonderful partner for raising children. He is my and the kids rock when I am filling restless and introspective. He is the perfect representation for all the qualities I lack. Alternatively, I too bring valuable energy to the lives of my children and I mother them to the best of my ability. I am a good mother, not the best, but good! I provide love, affection, structure and hope. I feel there will always be guilt where my children are concerned- no matter. The pain resides in my heart for the unknowable shifts in their lives. I can only rest in the bed of my own peace, knowing that I made the right choice for us as a whole. I stand by, (although at times, painfully) my decision, I knew I wasn’t living my truth, and I made everyone else pay miserably for my unhappiness.
Deciding to change my family took a lot of courage on my behalf, some may say selfishness, but thats OK. What I have learned most is that we all are truly unknowable as we each bring our own experiences to our reality. It upsets me to hear people say I left my family, or that I should have stayed married for the children. The choice I made was extremely difficult and I did not arrive there with ease. Life would have been easier for us all had I not chosen to leave. I was a stay at home mom with a wonderful husband who provided for me. I lived the good life, full of all the things that money can buy- but it was never enough! I longed for a richness I was not able to obtain in that relationship- I controlled myself too much- I couldn’t let go! I just wanted to be vulnerable but was never able to go there with him. It makes me so incredibly sad knowing that I lived almost 35 years without truly ever letting go. When I look into his big brown eyes and see my children, it hurts in a dark place knowing that I couldn’t make it work. I know that if any man would have been the one for me it would have been him, but I just was unable. But, what I could do was to have children with him and establish a life-long friendship. He is my family, and that is what love is really all about. I took my vows to honor and cherish, and I did that by setting him free. We are still a family, maybe a little broken, but we are slowly piecing ourselves back together, however, the shape we take will look a little different than before.
My story is so incredibly bitter sweet, it is at times unbearably sad, yet I feel joy l have never experienced. She has a porthole into my soul that has never seen light before. To be able to feel that oneness, that connection with another spirit is what I liken to a heavenly state. This is how I felt when I nursed my infants and marveled in awe, the miracle of life. To be reached on a “cellular” level and to give on a “cellular” level makes me feel as though i exist as a part of the universe. It is love as with a child, a parent, and a lover combined into one. I have never known a love before so revealed expect for the love i feel for my children- it is raw and exposed!
Finding the center of all these emotions is the hard part! I have learned from all of this that emotions are complicated, they are not one-sided. There is a grayness, or a yin/yang if you will, to all of our lives. At times we may be more black than white, storm gray, or eggshell, but what we can count on is that our hues never stay the same.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 21, 2010
“Who and What should be considered?” while I entertain spewing my —- all over the net waves. Does it really even matter if I am talking about myself- my story. REAL life is astonishingly more interesting than any made up B-crooked letter fiction and I’m about to prove it! My intellectual needs are met by my persistent, onslaught of questions- fired rapidly at any one in my range… I don’t thrive on other peoples lives and knowledge, I exist (in my head, or learn about myself) from them! I need information like a donut needs glaze, I am dry, boring and crumble easily without it. Communicating is how I process and understand not only the world around me, but also my true (head-case) self. I constantly gather information and use it to learn about myself- yes I am extremely self involved but to my defense, it is only because I want to be a better version of me. So it seems, I can’t get over, around, with, beneath, or even beside myself without comparing notes.
If the “Little Miss Nosey” character needed a face lift, I am certain that many folks would vote for my points and ovals.. I am just flat -out, plain, old, nosey; and I even have a little snoopy look about me. (A casting director once said he could see me playing the “odd girl- next door”, and then he tried to back track, after seeing my dismay by saying that I could pull off “a period character.” (Like who, Nancy Drew? )
In any event, in attempts to embrace my lack of boundaries, filters and other socially acceptable cultural whatevers, I am going to use them to my, to my what? To my advantage- of course.. silly, selfish girl that I am, Why wouldn’t I? I am going to try to make these unsightly characteristics work for me… you know, find a place for them.
I hope this is the spot to entertain your fancy, to build my story threaded with peoples lives and how I always find myself in them. This stuff is oozing with fresh baked, chocolate chip cookie richness, and stickiness that make it oh so good. Stick around because the first batch comes out out soon. (You will be reading a ton of food references because I am obsessed!)
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