If a page in Open Office could be ripped out of my computer and tossed in the corner, you wouldn’t be able to see my floor right now. That’s how many times I’ve started this post.
And started again.
This is what happens when an agoraphobic story, desperately wants to be heard, but still isn’t convinced that it’s safe to walk out into the world. No matter how times you dress it up pretty and have it almost coaxed to the door, it may just as easily turn back around, and spend the evening on the couch, with a stale bag of Fritos instead. Continue reading “The Itty Bitty, Big Things.”
Before I even start, I need to say a few things up front.
1- I have my daughter’s permission to tell this story.
2- This is not an attempt to be an authority on something I know nothing about, like being gay. Or having a child that’s gay. The only thing I can be an authority on, are my own experiences, and realizations, and flaws, and regrets. Of the last two especially, I have more than I can count. Continue reading “That Time My Daughter Was Gay.”
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a blog post that was kind of about the B word (Bigotry) and kind of about the R word (Racism), and then sort of about some other things that weren’t doing me a bit of good to keep carrying around.
So I threw them out.
Into cyberspace. Continue reading “Finding Peace and Understanding, in the Gross, Spongy Center of Life.”
The first time I saw The Help, I fell in love with Minny. She was a Truth Telling Nightmare, who fought back, regardless of the risks; and shined a light so bright, that the Doers of Darkness, had nowhere left to hide. And while tale after tale of bravery and heroism had me cheering the whole way through, nothing compared to Bad Ass Minny, taking a dump in a Narcissist’s pie. Continue reading “It’s More Than Just the Poopy Revenge.”
So here we are again.
You: still waiting patiently.
Me: cursing and crying and digging a hole in the wall in front of my desk with an anxious big toe, as I Write. Erase. Repeat. And then press my fingers into my eyeballs as far as I can without causing permanent blindness, and think “Who even does this?”
Like really. What kind of person feels the burning need to vomit words into space where anyone.
Or no one.
But mostly anyone.
Can read them?
For the last month. Every time I’ve tried to write this post, that’s the only thing that comes out. Continue reading “Dear WordPress. You’re the only one who truly understands me.”