On the drive in to work today I had my dial tuned to American Family Radio. It’s an addiction, don’t judge me. “Focal Point with Bryan Fischer” is the show that’s usually on when I head to work (except for on Saturdays, when it’s “Down Gilead Lane,” which I LOVE SO FUCKING MUCH IT’S GROSS), and today they were apparently discussing the recent spate of young gay people killing themselves. A caller said of Rutgers…
I have been laid low a few times in my life. Luckily (or perhaps sadly, depending on your perspective and how much you like to see me suffer), not too terribly many times. Nonetheless, this weekend I found myself on my floor in a heap, a demon of despair escaping from my lungs in great heaves. It was not pretty and it was not cathartic. It just felt like death. The death of all the…
I am here, I am a little shaken, but I am okay. Again, as they always do, my friends and family have gone above and beyond for me. I don’t know how I got so lucky. I’m deeply humbled, endlessly grateful, and I’ve got a lot to think about. It’s not quite time to write about it all yet, but in due time I’ll get it down. Thank you to everyone who gets me by.
I spend a lot of time fighting my gut feelings and trying to convince myself that they are off base, not real, exaggerated, etc. And every fucking time, my gut feelings have been on point. Every time. Every time. Every fucking time. And yet I keep plugging along, each new experience giving me a chance to say, No, gut, you’re wrong this time. You know, gut, you sure are paranoid for no reason. Gut, you…
But all I ask of you is that you don’t make me feel like a fucking chump.
I realize I just posted a picture of a marigold on Friday but I am just smitten with this particular bloom and I want to blow it up big and trace the little yellow outline with my eyes, again and again. I have always proclaimed myself no big fan of marigolds. Frankly, their smell puts me off (I’ve come to tolerate it since they are supposed to repel mosquitoes), but this year the ones I…
Y’all. I read Aunt B‘s book. I loved it. Like, really, really loved it. I couldn’t read it in one sitting, however. Because it kept creeping me the fuck out. I figure that is the hallmark of a successful book of ghost stories. I can’t remember the last time I read something that was both very beautifully (and funnily, at times) written that was also quite unsettling and made me see things in shadows and…
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