This is my project–in the spirit of Jack Handy’s “Deep Thoughts” on SNL–20 true words/day. Will you write with me?
What can I teach you, my beautiful, fierce daughter? What have you already learned that I never wanted you to?
A deer chased me on the 6-flags-over-Jesus’s meditation walk. Seriously. Ran at me. Stamped. Huffed. Retreated. Repeat. For. 6. minutes.
My chiropractor and I have the same back massager. Only, he uses his to massage people’s backs. That’s– one use.
Why does the image of decayed wealth— rusty iron gate, overgrown stone-walled garden, and falling-down, dark-windowed Queen Anne—haunt us?
Waiting on a storm, the stillness weighs heavily. Pressure builds, drops bodily. Like distant lightning, my wrists crackle and pop.
Let me speak plain. I want to be understood. I want to understand. I want to write from love alone.
Tuesday’s hangover: cats that sound like children crying, “Mama!” coffee, laundry, bagel, coffee, Wordle, yoga, cat boxes, laundry, laundry, laundry.
Gratitude list: health, shelter, family, frozen foods—nuggets, fish sticks—because we do not have to hunt or kill anything.
I thought my story was a tragedy. I was wrong. I am in a comedy. I am a fucking novel.