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.
This is my project–in the spirit of Jack Handy’s “Deep Thoughts” on SNL–20 true words/day. Will you write with me?
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.