I will have you know that you all used to be one of my favorite animals.
I can’t get over how urgent this essay published in 1836 remains today. And I urgently, madly want to annoy you all with it.
I don’t know what home means without you.
I’m writing about the extraordinary.
Cognitive functions deteriorate with exhaustion; I once hallucinated midnight bicyclists and figures running through the woods after summiting Mt. Rainier.
I’m committing to following this path as best I can, although I can’t see the turns ahead and everyone disagrees about the map.
When Joanna and I bought groceries the next day from a store unironically named Winn-Dixie, the cashier chatted with us about our beer and asked, “So what are ya’ll doing later today?” in a way that made me feel rude for not including her.
Her writing was an act of taking a love that for centuries had been pushed to the margins and defiantly sticking it on the center of the page.
Standing there, I have a similar sensation to the one on the Peter Pan ride at Disney World when your pirate ship escapes through the window of the children’s bedroom to reveal a sleepy London beneath you.
Those who drive sex education policies, it would seem, care more about ideology than accuracy—more about ideology, in fact, than effectiveness, teen moms, or lifelong diseases, either.
