There’s beer in the fridge and it doesn’t say, “Kirkland Signature.” (No hate.) There’s bourbon in the liquor cabinet. There’s a liquor cabinet. There’s a cabinet. I’ve never lived in a cleaner place. I’ve never used more sturdy cutlery.
We like Tony C. because he was good, but we love him because he could have been great. We love him for his potential. We love him because we can imagine what he could have been. 100 home runs by twenty-two? He could have been the best player who ever lived.
I don’t know what it means to live a good life, or how I’m measuring it. I didn’t donate blood out of purely altruistic motivations—I’m a sucker for free snacks and affirmation. I have had a good life, an exciting life, and insofar as it depends on me, I’d like to keep that up. So something is enough for today.
For someone unfamiliar with competitive rowing, it looks like people rowing a boat down a river. For someone familiar with competitive rowing, I have to assume it also looks like people rowing a boat down a river.
And I’m thinking about how much I feel like Frankenstein’s monster, some days—pieced together, a compilation of chemicals without the animation that makes a life.
I had been living in Boston for about two months at the time, and it only took one week to realize that the gay-to-straight ratio here is exponentially larger than in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
I was ten and had three consuming desires in life: a yellow bedroom, an American Girl doll, and a dog. So I was devastated, but prepared to bargain.
When I moved to Boston, I had a dream about the church I would attend. I would get there by public transportation, because I like to believe that God is green.
The clever phrasings, the lilting harmonies, the bone-soaking sadness, the hard-earned joy—it fills me up with the subtle satisfaction of uncertainty.
Five miles. I’m finally loosening up and integrating the constant blare of spectators into my normal state of existence. I stay calm and don’t mind people passing me.
