“It doesn’t matter what you do,” I will tell my children, “as long as you like yourself better than you like most other people.”
Four tablespoons, give or take, of pure, undiluted mayonnaise.
That’s why teachers are always angry, and why the most successful schools still employ good, old-fashioned paddlin’. Yell some sense into ‘em, preferably with personal insults and condemnations of their overall character.
I stood ten feet away from Kate Stables in the front row of an audience that barely totaled twenty people, and yet This Is the Kit wasn’t playing for us. They didn’t even know we were there.
Four times a year on the equinoxes and solstices, St. Luke, Renton, combines liturgy, mystery, and nature in an evening service open to everyone.
The last time I knew who I was I had acne, four AP classes, and a Bible in my senior photos.
Whenever I tell people about this hunting trip, about my family’s tradition for the past ten years, I share it with a blend of defiance, pride, and defensiveness.
Wildfires ravage and Irma bears down and nuclear tests keep happening, and I am heavy bored.
The fairness and insensitivity of this feels reassuring, like weather or death. Something I cannot change. Something that does not care about me.
I cried last night. Everyone did. Three a.m. and drunk, overcaffeinated.