And so I wonder, which one are you? Are you the one who believes that there is another person walking this earth meant for you and you alone? Are you the one that thinks that God has created another half, just for you, and that you will one day meet this person and suddenly you two will fit together like no other, making you realize that those people before were great, but not right, puzzle pieces that could be finagled together if you cheated a little bit with a bend here or a squeeze there, but it's not the same as when two designated pieces slide in together just so.
When I cry. When I sob, I sound just like my mother. I look in the mirror and the tears have magnified my eyes, making them less squinty than normal, less Telles-like, and that face in the mirror is a mirror of my mom's. It's moments like these, when I see myself and hear myself gushing pain and heartache, that I feel most like her daughter.
There are few foods as comforting as spaghetti with red sauce, or as filling. Spaghetti fills everything.
Dear God, And so I live in a time and place where my letters to God are typed on my iPhone inside an arctic subway car. But surely You are used to this-followers and children squeezing You in when they can, doling out snippets of time in between. In between anything and everything that supersedes a relationship with You. And I am happy. And I am worried. But I am happy. And that girl is something else, God. Did you create us for each other? Or is she one of many created with me in mind, and vice versa?
Justin is a man, but almost a boy, or at least he looks more like a boy when you get up closer. His beard is deceiving, his big worn hands are deceiving, his homeless status is somewhat deceiving. On my first go around, I saw a dark head tilted down into a jutting collarbone, dwarfed by a large cardboard sign that said, "Anything helps" (anything helps, need work, I am trying to pull my life together, please) I made it three stores down before I turned back. When I addressed him with my perky and sunny "Hi" he immediately looked up.
The following is yet another Craigslist ad that appears to be for reals, and is basically my worst nightmare:
“ Hello girls we are an upscale foot fetish company specializing in foot fetish
parties where you get paid to party, have fun at a cool stylish party, and make
$400 a night on average while having your feet massaged and kissed! This job is
100% legal and you do NOT take your clothes off this is only about your feet, and
we immediately fire anyone that breaks any rules or laws. This party is held
Last weekend I went to my first comic convention. Let me clarify, for of course I have been to comic conventions before, but this was the first time I had my own booth. Let me clarify, again, for even though I had a booth that showcased my comic and the adorable JLLT underwear we had made, it was not, in fact, “my own” booth because I shared it with five other comic creators.
A couple of weeks ago I went in for an IME. For those of you that don't know (which is probably most of you, considering you would never have heard of such a thing unless you have been involved in an accident or a no fault insurance claim) IME stands for Independent Medical Examination. I was involved in a bicycle meets van door meets Lacy on the ground with a jacked up neck and knee in December, and have been receiving both chiropractic care and acupuncture ever since.