My Imagination Runs Wild (Or: Mom, the Manawa Dam Collapsed and I’m Thinking About Grief Again)
A trickle becomes a torrent; a drop in a bucket becomes a catastrophic flood.
A trickle becomes a torrent; a drop in a bucket becomes a catastrophic flood.
What should we do with good art made by bad people?
It is impossibly easy to spot the darkness.
Down in our backyard, lying next to our bushes, was a bird on their back, legs twitching.
Now here I was, sweating after a kick to the face, wondering if Gina knew she kicked off of my skull instead of the wall.
Luck doesn’t prove virtue.
How does one make her sister feel loved when their parents have set the bar so high?
I wasn’t competitive enough to care about winning; I wanted to be but I didn’t seem capable of it.
Infinity Train feels like my white whale of media.
You might find yourself less afraid of the unknown, because you have faced and conquered it before.