In my back pocket, I have a ripcord—a one-way pass to dialing it in. To slack, to slap hands and say, “Bruh,” before dropping my loose-noodle body down and grabbing a sweating glass of something cold. Permission to not. Who am I to not give it? And to take it. I am taking it tonight, here, and now. I will not write one more word.
Except this.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 