I just saw the comment “datz ma last day of skool” on the Facebooks. I had to physically get up and walk away before I replied, “Oh yeah? What fucking horrible school would that be?” Old, old, old.
Put the ball in the basket a lot more than the other team, and keep your hands off the competition. Also, fundamentals. And try to sing upbeat montage tunes like the one dude pictured above. You’re welcome.
I have this iPhone app that alerts me every Thursday morning that I have started a new week of pregnancy. There is no need for the alert, really, as I obsessively read and reread every day’s tidbit, and I know at every moment of every day just what week and day I’m on. This week there is a little lime-sized thing in me. If all is still well, its bones are hardening, its tooth buds…
There is a run-down stretch of Monroe between Marshall and Lauderdale, over by Kudzu’s, that is crammed full of colors and textures that are crumbling and fading due to neglect. This is Memphis, so some day, all of that will meet with a bulldozer. Too bad, because a lot of the architectural detail over there is really interesting, and full of history to boot. Le sigh. [Project 365] crossposted at…
Courtney was nice enough to invite me to go strawberry picking at Jones Orchard with her and Dustin, Daphne, and her sister Chelsea. The weather was amazing and I didn’t even break a sweat. That’s how I gauge good weather. Sunny? Check. Breezy? Check. Sweaty? Nope. EFFING FABULOUS. We let the munchkin go nuts, picking her own crop and sampling some of the pickins first — to make sure they met her quality standards, of…
And so begins many months of being the sober one at parties. It’s actually not so bad. It keeps me out of trouble and I am permanently hangover-free, which is honestly one of the best feelings ever. Of course, my social anxiety does cartwheels around the room when I can’t get a couple of drinks in me, but I’m just going to have to get over that. Things you can do while sober at a…
I feel like I’ve been sitting on the biggest secret in the world. And truly, I have. This little passenger came on board in February and shook my shit up. For a good long while there I thought I was losing my grip and finally making the long drop into madness. Turns out it was just my brain and body getting themselves aligned for what is to come. And what an alignment that was. Of…
My grandmother potted this for me last year and called it a bleeding heart. But it looks just like a columbine bloom, only it’s clumpy and grows much taller than my purple columbines. And the internet returns something much different when I search for “bleeding heart.” So I’m going to call it a columbine, at the risk of inciting grandmotherly rage. What else is out there? Snapdragons, I forget what it’s called. Creeping…
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