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It’s Frisky Friday again — show me what you’ve got.

Twenty-eight pages in one sitting. I don’t know you, person in Miami, but you just made my day.

Steal my words — I don’t care. Steal Liza’s, though, and we have a problem.

My wife has spoken. The GIFs are gone.

I’m a skeptic of almost every bodywork modality, but Georgia’s hands were persuasive.

It’s Frisky Friday again — show me what you’ve got.

It’s Frisky Friday again — show me what you’ve got.

Google Analytics tells me what you read, where you come from, and where you go when you leave. The results are revealing — and, honestly, a little flattering.

I cried this morning, for only the third, fourth, and fifth times in my adult life, for a friend I’ve never met who is heading back to be killed.