Here’s a very short story of suburban dystopia for all those parents who hate play dates.
There’s something about the word journey. It’s just always good. Even a journey into the depths of hell seem to hold promise of something better on the other side.
The writer at his desk is surrounded by crumpled failed drafts, stacks of newspapers and books. He is disheveled, eccentric, misanthropic. In all honesty, I find the image quite noble. Growing up, I wanted to be that person. I wanted the intense focus; the seclusive nature- the endless quiet, save birds and music. I wanted
I’ve got a few snatches of things that are just swimming around in my head with no place to really go. That’s what I was thinking, until I remembered how the lovely Cheila does random thoughts posts, and I always love reading them. So here it goes. No pre-planned topics, just whatever shows up to
I want to scream. I’m standing in the kitchen next to my mom who’s fixing me a plate. She’s taking forever, as usual
The evening glows under a sherbet-colored sky. Hanging from this sky, clouds– thick and heavy, low– their slow migration quiets the birds. The defiant chicks of each nest send out an occasionally sleepy chirp in rebellion of bedtime. Defiance seems universal. And then the crickets take over. 10 seconds of total silence in the night,
And then I smile at her. And for the past two mornings, she has stared me straight in the eye and not so much as twitched a phony smile. It’s the oddest thing. I’ll try one more time tomorrow.
I just had a flashback. Cue pulse of blinding white light. I’m in the past. I’m sitting on the floor in the tiled hallway of my childhood home; I’m talking on the phone with my boyfriend. The hallway was as far as the cord could reach. So I pulled the phone from the kitchen and had conversations in the hallway. My
So, everyday since my post the other night, I have been bike riding around my neighborhood. In fact, that’s what I’m doing now. I just wanted to get down my impressions of the night before I forgot, so instead of passing my house I ran inside and grabbed my computer. Started typing. I’ll head back
There’s a part of me that likes to see a high number in my drafts folder. There’s something soothing about not having to start from scratch. Knowing that something is needing you in order to feel whole, quite frankly, feels good. You therapists out there can analyze me if you like.