The Unraveling of Truth
The difficult task we’ve all received is—like Vonnegut—seeking the slippery truth buried in muddiness and mess.
The difficult task we’ve all received is—like Vonnegut—seeking the slippery truth buried in muddiness and mess.
Nowhere else in this big wide world of ours can you find a life-size Michael Jackson and Princess Diana made entirely out of marzipan.
Fifty seconds of the wind whipping, a few tires screeching, nothing more, nothing more needed. Two days of slipping up the coast, of stinging sand, of white adobe buildings.
There’s nothing like bustling down the baking needs aisle with a week’s supply of Oreos yelling out for “Anthill!” to make you realize you’re not currently leading a traditional life.
The US eventually emerged from The Great Depression, but my grandmother did not.
The number nineteen appears with such frequency in this deposition, it begins to feel rehearsed.
And I’m in Ann Arbor, dreaming of waffles.
Where had he been when? What happened on the way? Why was he there? How did he die? The answers were dispersed on these 28 square feet. We needed them to get out.
I have a significant other. His name is JJ, and he’s a bird.
Outward Bound, Super Camp, tutors, counsellors, mentors—my parents spared no expense in trying to figure out my 2.33 cumulative high school GPA. Nothing worked.