There’s no way I can write this and not sound unbalanced or at the very least desperate. Every attempt I’ve made to begin stops short before any real progress is made. Even now, I am choosing my words carefully, desiring to sound eloquent but not fake, straight forward but not indecorous…so on and so on. Perhaps my best course of action is just to speak plainly and allow you to make up your own mind.
It’s five in the morning, and I am unable to sleep. The older I get, the more sleep eludes me. Insomnia became a semi-regular companion…
I had a conversation with my thirteen-year-old self the other day
She smiled politely, but I could tell
She had questions
Thirteen-year-old me is not a very good liar
“Okay,” I said, “What do you think?”
She was quiet for a moment and then,
“You’re very pretty”
Thirteen-year-old me is not a very good liar
“No, really. What do you think?”
She was about to open her mouth when I added
“And you can tell me the truth
I don’t care too much for bullshit”
Her eyes widened
Thirteen-year-old me can’t believe I just said bullshit
“It’s just…”
She started
Not making…
Please note: I’m a playwright. Read the following as if it were an epic monologue delivered at the climax of a drama or as if it was a rambling soliloquy of truth delivered by a Shakespearean fool who is wiser than you give them credit for rather than a well-thought-out thesis or immaculately edited blog. You get awesome bonus points if you actually do read it out loud in a funny accent. Thanks, DS
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When I was in college, I remember my professor said to me, “I think…
I did the thing, guys.
I did the thing that I tell all of my friends (especially those battling mental illness) not to do.
I scrolled on Facebook.
We’ve all been there: check the notifications, nothing exciting, something at the top catches your eye (“Cats who can rollerblade?! Show me!”), and then before you know it, you’ve lost an hour of your life staring at baby pictures of that chick Jenny who used to work at Panera with you. (“How did I get here?” you scream into the abyss.)
We’ve all been told the dangers of social media: you don’t…
People don’t write songs about situations like mine. I’ve tried very hard to find comfort in records like “Don’t Start Now” by Dua Lipa or “Ignore Me” by Betty Who, but, at the end of the day, I am in a completely different world than these narrators.
“Don’t Start Now” and “Ignore Me” (along with countless other songs that follow this archetype) have a storyteller with a giant metaphorical finger up in the air. Their past lover hurt them deeply only to come crawling back to them, begging for attention and/or a new beginning.
What happens when the lover never…
Dear Dad,
This Saturday is your and Mom’s anniversary, and I’m not sure why that’s hitting me harder than any of the other holidays. More than Father’s Day (which was terribly hard). More than your birthday.
I suppose the old cliche is true that death puts things into perspective. I never realized how big of an influence you had over my life until I couldn’t go to you anymore. We were never that close…not like you and Dana were. Dana was Daddy’s girl. Will continues to be Mama’s boy. And then there was me. I don’t think that we had…
