A Letter To My GPS
And in my rising, I have come up with a solution. Jellybeans. I will follow your stupid navigation decisions to the letter if you will spit out jellybeans for every correct turn.
A2
The past three months have swirled by in a flurry of skimmed articles, just-caught buses, and discussions over falafel and hummus about the drawbacks of capitalism.
Searching Serially
In an essay for The Awl, Jay Caspian Kang calls the podcast “an experiment in two old forms: the weekly radio crime show, and the confessional true-crime narrative.”
Hand Turkeys
Thanksgiving should not come from comparing what we have ticked off on our fingers to what our neighbors do. Thanksgiving should be an actual experience of gratitude.
Restless
Those old haunts the heart still goes to—even daily comforts brought me to them. That all might not seem like much. It isn’t much. But my heart is still a broken thing. My odd heart.
Another Woman’s Moccasins
If my fiancé decides to change his name, I want to make t-shirts that say WE ARE THE KRAMERS just to spite anyone who thinks this is not an option.
Wild and Free
A serving of oatmeal eaten straight out of the brown paper package gets a five out of ten stars when eaten in my kitchen, but eleventy-twelve stars when eaten atop a mountain.
Toilets, an Autoethnography
My fondness for toilets began in first grade when I staged a protest in the Jackson Elementary School girls’ bathroom. I objected to recess, of all things.
Hospitality
And if someone asks you what you’d like to drink, “nothing” is not an acceptable answer. If you say this, you will still get tea. Probably with three spoonfuls of sugar.
You Are A Tourist
He was there alone for about fifteen seconds, eyes closed, loving every moment. Those seconds were an eternity. A mop-headed kid in a big t-shirt ran up behind him and grabbed his shoulder.
