Musing

They’re for real.

All communication should come with stage directions.

Five in a drawer, two smoked, two remaining. I never said math was among my talents.

On the one hand, I like it.

I’m a hungry ghost, desperately seeking certain feelings, desperately seeking to escape other feelings.

“Criminal alien” is the language of demonization, not enforcement. Immigrants don’t scare me. White nationalist sociopaths? They terrify me.

The three stories I tell myself, over and over, and what they might say about me.

I’m scared.

So many men are so poorly behaved. I’m embarrassed at yet another example of sadistic sociopathy among otherwise admirable men.

Ten seats away, a woman I’d once made out with was surrounded by men — and jealousy surged through me with an intensity wildly disproportionate to reality. Turns out, she wasn’t even the right woman.