Fucking Perfect

I can't complain about my life. In any reality.
I've done exactly what I've wanted in each and every single one of them; I've let myself die, live, have a family, be homeless...I've died of AIDS and campaigned against unprotected sex and drug abuse. I've done all the fucking drugs I wanted, and I've stayed clean.

I've been everything and I've been nothing. I have a brother who looks like Kurt Cobain whose best friend looks like Mick Jagger when he was younger and wants to sleep with me; my boyfriend/husband/guy I have babies with is the cutest guy that's walked this earth and doesn't speak; my daughter's an Aspie girl who knows too much and says everything her father doesn't, her brother is my male mini-me and their little sister will grow up to be one of the best singers this world has seen. I've been mothered by the most admirable, strongest women to walk the misserable face of this earth, even when they refuse to believe it. My dads have been the most awesome, weirdest, craziest men you could possibly imagine, and they'd die for me.

I can't complain, I've had some great lives. But I can say this: I've made them great. I've enjoyed every second of each and every reality I've lived, and I would again, even if I didn't have the other realities to change. I don't regret anything...not even the slow, awful death I had in one of them; I acted and suffered the consequences, and I don't regret a second of it.

You shouldn't, either. You should live. Most people only get one life. Make the best of it, for fuck's sake.