mini_golf ovenbird I'm bad at mini golf. I can't make my mind and muscles align in a way that will make the ball go where I want. It keeps ending up in the bushes. But I don't care if I get a hole in one or a hole in ten. I don't care to even try. The whole exercise feels futile. I'm not made for this–counting and tallying, scoring and competing. I never want to put a number on what I'm worth ever again, even on a pirate themed mini golf course that is meant to be fun. I've already lost too much by looking at a number next to my name and believing I've come up short. I've been taken prisoner, hands cuffed with the sharp shackles of percentage signs. I've found every way to calculate my own lack. No more. The only tallies I keep now are these: How many bones have been unearthed by the tide? How many stars burn in your eyes? How much blood have I cried letting my heart find out what it was made for? I count myself lucky to be alive in this walking wounded world. 250731 what's it to you? who go blather from