I was Trying to Write Something About the New Year but I Wrote Whatever This is Instead
I think about writing, “I think about writing nothing ever again, because what’s the point in it,” but that isn’t true; I never actually thought that, it’s just a thing that enters my head as something I could write. It’s the sort of thing someone might think, probably. Not this someone, though — no, probably, I’m too convinced of my own worthiness as a writer to ever consider simply not writing. What would be the point in that?
Stevie
My son Paul was starting to come through. His cocky smugness began to vanish. The good kid I knew that was deep down inside him was starting to peek out from behind his veneer of twelve-year-old arrogance.
The Answers to All the Great Mysteries Are Found in the Laundry
within the simple task of gathering up your smelly socks and the pair of jeans with the ketchup stain near the crotch and hopefully using that Tide Pod for its intended use is the all important, elusive Meaning of Life.
Being an escort for me was like being a scrapbooker on Etsy for most other single moms trying to pick up some extra money. The only difference was that I could make a few thousand bucks for one hour of potential discomfort versus making a few hundred for several hours of suffering through handmade clip art. I’m a pretty open-minded person, but I cannot for one second believe that there is any joy in being hunched over a desk, cutting and pasting other people’s memories together. It seems so lonely and juvenile.