• Me Pool
    Depression is a Bitch,  Family Dynamics,  This is Me

    When I Was A Little Kid

    When I was a little kid, I thought I could grow up to be anything I wanted. This included a mermaid, the President, a famous actress, a successful writer and a beautiful princess. There was no tool more powerful than my imagination; indeed, it took me to places I would never be able to go, even as an adult who was supposed to hold the world in the palm of her hand and bid it do as she liked. When I was a little kid, there was no sadder girl on the face of the earth. Yet even despite the cloud perpetually threatening rain over my head, tomorrow always held…

  • Freedom!
    Damn the Man,  This is Me

    Freedom is the Best

    My days have gotten much more palatable since getting laid off in July. Rather than squeezing tiny drops of enjoyment from things like my drive home from work and stolen moments of frantic writing, I now look forward to every day. Every damn day. It seems a little excessive, huh? Granted, not every day is a cake walk (a couple of hours job searching in this economy is enough to crush even the chipperest of souls). But since deciding to go the freelance route, basically I wake up every morning excited. I love my first cup of coffee of the day, steaming and bold. While sipping those first precious drops of my…

  • sailboat
    This is Me

    Drafted Into A Project

    Mike has been working on a boat for the past few years. At first he decided to build one from scratch, which he did. It was just a little guy, something to tool around with in the harbor. Mike is one of those men that gets an idea, figures out how to do it, and then does it, which is one of my favorites of his qualities. Last year, he found an old, larger boat he wanted to restore. He had tinkered with the engine, patched it up and gotten it sea-worthy, but then thought he’d like it to look a little prettier. After all, this boat was an untouched…

  • Off to See the World


    I followed the point-by-point instructions in Let’s Go: France, but wasn’t sure I’d taken the correct bus – much less gotten off at the right stop – until the museum appeared ahead of me. After a half day of vague directions and multiple bus transfers, it wasn’t far now.  Shifting the backpack on my shoulders so it wouldn’t rub the sore patch along my collarbone, I sped up, buoyed by relief that I hadn’t gotten hopelessly lost. Again. Sweat dribbled down my temples. I recalled the Provence of cinema, perpetually sunny and pleasant. Today, I sweated through my clothes, same as yesterday, and every other day I spent walking on solo day trips from town to…


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