A squirrel in Estes Park, Colorado.
This little guy was near our hotel. He watched me carefully while resting his front paw on a pine cone, then darted across the lawn and up a tree.
I swear this squirrel is sticking its tongue at me.
He only stopped for a moment, not enough time to focus and get a good shot of him, but I think he was mocking me.
Fuck life. Fuck adulthood. Fuck being responsible. Fuck you if you hand handle a four letter word. No one asked you to read this fucking tirade.
Fuck diabetes and the fucking bullshit that goes with it. Fuck needles. Fuck insulin. Fuck half the paycheck that goes to keeping me the fuck alive. Fuck eating healthy and still being fucked over by the gene pool. Fuck never being able to eat anything unhealthy or risk the five fucking days it takes to recover. Fuck everyone who makes fun of you for the things you eat. Fuck the daily exercise that results in zero weight loss after three years. Why the fuck am I even trying?
Einstein sleeps on the train.
The LED board at the train station said our train was leaving from platform 3, but when we arrived, everything was broken. Signs confirming which platform you were on were non-existent. Platforms 2 and 3 were at the top of the stairs. Platform 3 could have been on the left or right. We didn’t know. The mechanical board on the platform was broken. So we asked. And asked. And asked.
No one seemed to know. The man sweeping the platform told us we were in the right place. Everyone who spoke English gravitated toward one another, asking the same question. We all had tickets on the fast train to Athens. We hoped we were in the right place.
The train eventually arrived. It was dirty and covered in graffiti. We found our seats in first class. Einstein was sitting in Paul’s seat. Eventually, we convinced him he had to move.
The first class seats weren’t fancy. They’re not quiet. They’re not much nicer than cattle class. You share a compartment with six people. Einstein wore dark blue jeans and an orangish-yellow polo shirt. He took a nap as soon as the train left the station. Einstein snores.
The best grandma in the world.
Perfer et obdura, dolor hic tibi proderit olim
I spoke to you on Thursday
by Saturday, you were gone
In my jealousy
I wanted you to stay
to speak to you again
to tell you I loved you once more
The morning light had come
your time was done
1:11, 11:11, it doesn’t matter the hour
there was so much more to say
No more history lessons
no more dirty jokes
no more simple days
to sit with each other
and just
be
I can still feel your soft skin
your gentle voice
in the echoes of my mind
your laugh
your smile
how you said my name
It’s been five long years
without your advice
your wisdom
your wit
I miss my cognate
my mentor
my friend
The loss
cannot be replaced
what was once extant
is now gone
If I could ask
you’d say
Be patient and tough;
someday this pain will be useful to you
If you visit the Star-Herald and are not a subscriber, you will be presented with a notice that you have 13 more stories to read before you will have to subscribe. You have just hit a soft, or metered, paywall. I don’t like paywalls. I circumvent them when I can and stop visiting a site if I can’t. Yet, paywalls are also a fundamental part of my place of employment.
Paywalls restrict the free flow of information. I want the most people possible to see my work. A paywall prevents that from happening. People tell me they would like to read my work, but can’t because they’ve hit the paywall.
A ladybug on my windshield.
A ladybug was on my windshield when I left work today
she clung to the glass as I pulled away
After a few blocks
she gingerly moved a few millimeters
By the time I got home
she was swiftly moving toward the edge of the windshield
Then she scurried to the wiper
and rested underneath
protecting herself
from the frequent Nebraska wind
Written on 31 October 2015
Tabitha insisted she knew the best spot in all of New York to pick blueberries. It was a beautiful summer day. The sun was shining just enough to warm your face, but not enough to sweat while basking in its glow, so we thought, let’s go and see this magical blueberry land. While my family picked other fruits on farms in the Hudson Valley, we never picked blueberries. We always got them from the stores or farms in plastic or moulded pulp punnets.
Blueberries in a moulded pulp punnet.
My husband, Paul, and I joined Tabitha in her car as she drove away from her home in Rock Hill and deep into the back country of upstate New York. Twenty minutes later, we turned onto a dirt road lined with overarching oak trees, their leaves swaying with a gentle breeze. Tabitha parked in between two young ash trees at the edge of the woods.
We walked about fifty yards into the woods on a one person wide, grass-trodden trail to an open area with few trees. Tabitha wasn’t the only one who knew about this place. Wild blueberry bushes were everywhere. As we each staked out a spot to pick berries, we discussed the best way to make jams and jellies and grabbing handfuls to eat just as they were. But I wanted my grandma to make blueberry pancakes.
Morning at the Scotts Bluff National Monument.
I’m tired of life’s interactions. I’m tired of the ruts. I’m tired of the expectations. I’m tired of wanting to do more, but mentally, cannot.
I’m tired and not because my iron levels will never be higher than the low end of normal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not depressed. But I am tired of the every day.
I’ve been working full-time since before I was a teenager. Doing what was expected of me, regardless of whether I felt it was fair.
I’m tired of never feeling like I fit in. I’m tired of worrying what will happen when I do.
I’m tired being on a budget. I’m tired from being tired and missing out while struggling to keep my head above the waters of doubt, rejection and negativity.
The week has been a stressful one with the passing of a beloved teacher.
A redditor made me laugh by calling Gov. Pete Ricketts names.
It just intrigues me that there’s a “Nebraskans for the Death Penalty Group”, and Ricketts is giving shit loads of money to it.
“I’ve got 200k burning a hole in my pocket. Should I donate to the Sienna Francis House? No. People’s City Mission? Doctors w/o Borders? No. Ooh, this group’s stance is killing people. I can get behind that.” Fucking dollar store Lex Luthor.
Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén
