Flaming bags of shit

A few weeks ago, I heard from someone I hadn’t thought of in years.  It was kind of funny in that “the huge guy in charge of the universe is watching me with creepy eyes” kind of way. A couple days before, I’d been randomly surfing The Facebook and found a comment she’d left in a place that neither of us should’ve been visiting–online or off–unless our intention was to throw flaming bags of shit, cackle maniacally, and then run rapidly in the other direction. Continue reading “Flaming bags of shit”

Lessons learned

When I was a teenager, I used to keep a list of the wise things my mother said. I called them her “rules for life,” and I had no doubt that one or the other of us would eventually use them as the starting point for a book. I meant to keep adding to them as the years went by, but I’m notoriously bad about writing myself notes and then forgetting where I’ve stashed them or–even worse–not writing them in the Continue reading “Lessons learned”

Why I wrote, and why I write.

211302643_3d7e3df154When I was ten, I got my first diary as a Christmas present. It had a lock, but it was no problem to open the journal without the key. Turns out this was good, because soon enough the key had vanished, probably stolen by my brother or swallowed by the dog. I kept writing in the little purple diary for months, regardless. Continue reading “Why I wrote, and why I write.”