I guess I’ve reached the point of news media consumption at which I expect the phrase “juicy secrets of stars” to concern some vapid, nosy meddling in some stranger’s affairs—my science communication background and research focus notwithstanding.
The trap I placed committed a horrible violence on such a precious creature.
It’s not like me eating a sandwich instead of pasta on July 11, 2011, is going to diverge my entire timeline.
To put it simply, I don’t know how to dress anymore.
The prejudices of this world are irrationally essential to your make-believe one.
In between is an uncomfortable space that is more often “neither/nor” than “both/and.”
How do you narrate to yourself how you have changed?
I’ve been discovering different versions of myself lately as the medicine, or lack thereof, messes with my head.
I laugh with them over Codenames and Fluxx, then ask if I can join them for swing dancing the next week.
Fictional characters aren’t the only ones who can’t be described without their settings.
