Confessions of a Compulsive Liar.

Because sometimes the lies feel safer.

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Based on a True Story

Inspired by reality, shaped by memory and imagination. These entries are part diary, part story — sometimes true, sometimes embellished, always honest in spirit. Because the truth is always subject to change.

Over and Under

09/20/2025 / Bubbly Eddie / Leave a comment

So, I had my second therapy session a couple of days ago, and let’s just say I don’t love how quickly I’ve gotten close to my therapist. We talked about my dad — how I never got a birthday call, text, or social media post from him. Does it hurt that I didn’t? Well, yes. … Continue reading Over and Under

Floating Head

09/09/2025 / Bubbly Eddie / Leave a comment

On September 7th, under the blood moon, I marked two years since I packed my car with what I could and left Texas behind for Washington. Today, September 9th, is my second year living here. It feels longer — maybe because so much has shifted under me. Everything I thought I knew, everything I thought … Continue reading Floating Head

My Father Gets Married Today

09/06/2025 / Bubbly Eddie / Leave a comment

He's getting married while I'm stuck in a time loop, reliving every age between six and thirty. He's getting married while I'm over here drinking a warm, bitter cup of resentment - spiced with cinnamon- poison sugar and topped with traumatized whipped cream. Because at the end of the day, he did what he could, … Continue reading My Father Gets Married Today

Welp, here we are.

08/31/2025 / Bubbly Eddie / Leave a comment

I’ve typed and erased so many sentences.I’ve typed. I’ve erased.There were even two full paragraphs — gone. What I have to say doesn’t feel like it means anything. Maybe that’s why I keep deleting it. But isn’t that what writing is sometimes? A conversation between the parts of myself that want to be seen and … Continue reading Welp, here we are.

Please tell me this makes sense

08/01/202508/01/2025 / Bubbly Eddie / Leave a comment

I have this ache in the pit of my stomach. Not my heart—my stomach—because maybe that’s where my heart lives now. Or maybe it’s on my sleeve. My emotions feel bare, exposed, scraped raw by every silence. I wince when even a light breeze brushes against them. Can they read my face? Can they read … Continue reading Please tell me this makes sense

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