I miss everything.
I miss what people’s whole faces looked like.
I miss accidentally bumping into someone in a mundane location like the grocery store and then saying “sorry” while smiling at them, not fearing that either of us would die because we said a word out loud without protection.
I miss bad breath. The kind coworkers had that we could joke about behind their backs about because we liked them and it didn’t feel malicious. We just hoped they’d brush better or look into gum or mouthwash. Because bad breath wasn’t deadly. It was just objectively bad in the…
Wake up. Feel tired. Feel confused.
Go to a doctor. Say something’s wrong with you. Hear nothing’s wrong with you.
Feel tired. Feel confused. Pick up your kid. Hide the tired. Worry about the tired.
Sleep.
Wake up. Feel tired. Feel confused.
Go to a doctor. Say something’s wrong with you. Hear nothing’s wrong with you. Go to another doctor crying, say something’s not right with you. Get blood drawn. Tell work.
Feel tired. Feel nervous. Feel confused. Pick up your kid. Hide the tired. Worry about the tired.
Sleep.
Wake up. Feel tired. Feel confused.
Hear from a doctor…
I’m afraid.
I’m afraid of a lot of things.
I’m afraid of heights. I’m afraid of the water being too hot when I thought it was just lukewarm and when I wash my hands it’ll hurt and I’ll forever have strange hands. I’m afraid that every time I make up a person in order to deliver the punchline of a joke I name him Carl inexplicably and don’t know how to stop.
I’m afraid that maybe I’m not a good writer and simply got lucky a few times. That I am Meg Ryan and I disappeared into the ether after…
I’ve had an interesting year or two.
I’ve become a father. I’ve leased upwards of 6 cars and then either re-leased them to other people or sold them. I’ve fallen in love. I’ve hurt people. I’ve just run the gamut.
It’s created an odd version of me. I write less. I get so stressed out by all of these dumb decisions I’ve made that I lash out at people in awful ways. I’ve mastered the art of projection at a Donald Trump level. It’s a (large understatement) bummer.
So, when your life becomes a mess, you get a mop or…
You lose your hair. Bummer, I know. “But I had a Jew fro and..” Stop. Just stop. It goes. It will make you nervous, but as you age, you learn to cut it in a way that says, “hey, at least I’m not fat.” Also, women know every man goes bald. Spoiler alert: they’re pretty okay with it. (Again, as long as you’re not also fat. That’s a bad look.)
The Warriors draft Steph Curry and your years and years of watching them fail endlessley pay off. That year you spoke to Jim Barnett with Kevin in Denver at the…
- I will slowly become less afraid of revolving doors at places like airports. Why am I afraid of them you ask? Great question, person. Just kidding, it’s not, THEY’RE FUCKING HORRIFYING AND IF YOU GET TRAPPED IN THEM THEN WHAT, THEN YOU’RE JUST IN THAT LITTLE TRIANGLE UNTIL YOU WILL NO DOUBT DIE.
- I will become less hyperbolic about dying.
- I will become less hyperbolic about being hyperbolic, but to be honest that sounds impossible and I will never be able to do that, ever.
- I will begin to aggressively post pictures of a new person I am dating after…
On Traveling Alone and Learning The Point.
I’m sitting here on a plane listening to Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own”, unbeknownst to every adult sitting near me and loving the fact that what they don’t know is that in my head, i’m parading through the aisles like a wildly, wildly gay man giving everyone everything I’ve physically got for a dance floor.
This is traveling alone.
I was terrified when I decided to fly to Bali alone months back. I’m an odd mix of a peacock and a hermit crab: I love to show my feathers and talk about them, but I sure do love to hide…
“The thing is, I didn’t say that. And honestly, I’m so fucking sick of this conversation”
“Yes. You did.”
“I did what, say ‘that’? See now you’re being vague, because I finished the sentence differently so now your answer is confusing, as though I did ‘fucking sick of this conversation’, which is, in fact, not a complete sentence, which in fact explains so much about you in general.
“What does that even mean?”
“Why do you always ask that? It’s such an obnoxious question. What does that even mean? You know exactly what it means, it’s like I stated something…
This isn’t how it was supposed to go.
I’m supposed to be your dad, the one that wakes up down the hall from you every day with your mother. We’re supposed to argue and make up about who’s going to get up to get you. Sometimes I’ll pretend to sleep when you wake up just so it’s not me, sometimes she’ll do the same. I’d step on your toys in the hall and laugh at how cliche life really is.
I’d learn to cook you breakfast even though I’m a lousy cook. We’d laugh when I made pancakes and talk…
A love letter to The Bold Italic, the first place that took a chance on me.
Years ago, I was at a holiday party for a company I hated. I was sad, without a voice, and terrified of ever voicing my opinion. The best part:
I was a staff writer.
I went to work, daily, confused on who I even was. Why I gave myself this title. How the fuck was I even a writer? What does that even mean? People HATED my writing.
I was nothing like them. They were so fast, so whip smart in such a stupidly short turn. I was just a tiny intimidated kid playing handball with someone who was 8'6"…
