Still Out of F*cks

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Coming soon…

I’m a writer, god dammit, and I’m still out of fucks. I wrote a previous piece entitled Out of F*cks: A Memoir on Addiction, Codependency, and a Story of Recovery. Then I pulled it from the shelves, not because I’m frightened of judgement or afraid of my ex, but because there is one thing in this universe I refuse to gamble with: my kids. Their dad’s reaction to the book stirred up enough chaos that it simply wasn’t worth the collateral damage.

But here’s the thing – I’m still out of fucks, and I still have a story worth telling. I still want the catharsis. I still want to normalize addiction, codependency, and the absolute banana-boat insanity of parenting. And most of all, I want to help other fucked-up people, with no insult intended, because if you’ve survived your own mess, stayed sober, built a life, raised kids, or simply dragged yourself through a day you weren’t sure you could manage, then you, my friend, are a phenomenon. And phenomena deserve spotlights.

So, this memoir strips out stories about my ex. Yes, that’s a loss because those were some wild-ass chapters. But I’ve lived enough chaos for ten books, so don’t worry, you’ll still get a ride. I may refer to him in passing, but he’s no longer the villain, the catalyst, or the explanation. Maybe that’s symbolic. Maybe cutting him out of this memoir is me cutting him out of my narrative altogether.

Let me give it a try. Have a little faith in me. I’m in this for the long game, remaining steady, stubborn, and unapologetically true to myself, because I know my story helps people, and apparently it even makes some of them laugh. And honestly? That’s reason enough to keep writing. Humor is the best damn medicine I’ve ever found for pain, and trust me, I have sampled a pharmacy. So, laugh with me. Learn with me. And watch as I reclaim my story. Because becoming out of fucks was never about anyone else. It was about finally and fiercely becoming myself.