I got to talking to Kirsten one day. Before a meeting. Or after. Or maybe it was during the meeting. I don’t have the steadiest of attention spans. I do remember that we didn’t reserve the conference room just so I could unload some personal issues, but that’s what ended up happening. Continue reading
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Jill yearned to sell everything and live full-time in a motorhome. For her, there existed no stronger pull than the allure of going right to the precipice of civilization and then continuing over without even slowing down. Falling into the unknown, knowing only that it’s the surest way to know you’re fucked. The sultry mix of gas fumes, septic aromas, and barely chilled vegetables rotting in an overworked traveling refrigerator combined to form an irresistible fragrance that marked a life on the move. To pack all of our belongings and hit the open road in search of deep, irreplaceable memories full of irreparable emotional traumas, that was a call she could not silence and her heart refused to ignore. Continue reading
This post goes too far. A superior edit of it first appeared on In The Powder Room and being a little bit removed provided some cover. But now I’m including it on this blog and it may be too much for those who know me.
In fact, if you’re: my mom, my mother-in-law, Kirsten, Cristina, anyone who works with me, Brian, Jennie, Maggie, Claudio, anyone I’ve ever gone to school with, anyone who is friends with me on Facebook, residents of Chicago and Indiana and the United States, English speakers, and non-English speakers, then you must skip this post. Here, read about the time I stole some doughnuts.
To anyone who is still cleared to read: just promise me we will never meet in real life after you’re done reading. Because I won’t be able to make eye contact.