My inner child is a sick, twisted, devious lil f*ck. Really, she is. She has tormented friends and relatives since as long as I can remember. I can not seem to contain her.
We have inside jokes, which of course make me look like an idiot as I sit here in the coffee shop laughing maniacally at, well, seemingly nothing.
She talks me into doing things I normally wouldn’t do. Okay, well, I’m kind of a sketchy person, I might do them, but she provokes and encourages.
I love my inner child. Other people love my inner child. She helps make me who I am. Fun, witty, diabolical.
Our inner child is what helps keep us young in mind. Not immature, well, okay, maybe a little, but still, it adds to our unique personalities.
My inner child makes me who I am. Without her I’d be pretty boring. I probably wouldn’t be as creative either, as she speaks to me as I write, telling me ‘oh, hey, yanno what would be great…’.
I get courage from my inner child. She tells me ‘go on, you can do it…I DARE YOU!’. Okay, sometimes that’s not always a good thing.
Like when tequila is involved. >_>