Icky
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I see them in the morning, when I squint against the sun streaming in through curtainless windows. Spots of light at the corner of my vision, fireflies flashing their morse code into the ether. I blink and they’re gone, the shine of the morning dims mundane. Coffee massages away the last dregs of the headache…
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Fascism relies on despair. Relies on fear, on a misunderstanding and truncating of normal legal process to enforce the unenforcable through individual avoidance of possible consequences. It relies on the idea that those resisting are outnumbered, which is almost always untrue. As the barrage of executive orders roll in from the new fascist administration, we…
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Years ago, I saw a movie. An adaptation, I assumed, inspired by Lovecraft’s The Color from Outer Space — which is my favorite work by him for it’s relative lack of racism. Just a rock that changes everything around it, the living things in its vicinity taking its influence into themselves as an indescribable color…
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The problem with being an achiever is the achievements. When you’re still in school, they come at a steady clip. A on the midterm, on the term papers, in the socratic seminars, in the videogames you still have time to play, in the number of shots you down in one night and still go to…
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15 minutes before I have to get my brain up and moving for a 2-part science lesson on fake dinosaur tracks for an eighth grader. This gets me up at 7, bleary eyed and exhausted from a creaking bed, my dog confused and offended that he must begin his daily herding of humans a full…
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And so here we are. Back after a long hiatus of working on things in the comforting dark of internet obscurity and not sharing. Because it’s none of your business, really, this voyeuristic/narcissistic practice of journaling to the internet for a like or two. But I must, right? I’m a writer, and what’s the point…
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Life is a series of deaths, the most devastating of which occurs upon deciding there is nothing more worth learning. No opinions worth hearing that don’t validate your own, no more care for why the grass is green, for the stories the constellations are named for, for the sleeping giants in the museums. This is…
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Soup was the first food I learned how to make myself — chicken noodle, dumped from the can and into a pot and heated so my mom could wash her hands of me and return to work with a closed office door. Then began the raids on the spice cabinet: oregano, cayenne pepper, nutmeg for…


