You Come Home. I Welcome You With A Kiss. I Tell You How Much I Miss You, You Chuckle. We Sit On The

"To love someone long term is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be ."

-Heidi priebe

“Death “makes absence just another familiar habit,” writes Llamazares. “Disappearance, however, has no limits.””

— Nina MacLaughlin, from “On the First of November, the Ghosts Arrive”, The Paris Review

I saw an article called “Make Peace With Your Unlived Life” and it really made me stop and think. So much of our lives is mourning for what we didn’t become. It’s a waste. We didn’t waste any opportunities. What came and went was not meant for us.

“People sometimes think of themselves as a picture that matches / an invented longing:”

— Mary Jo Bang, “The Earthquake She Slept Through” from The Last Two Seconds (via smokefalls)

not me romanticizing my classes and pretending I’m a novelist in the 18th century about to publish my first draft when in fact I am just sitting in my dorm with a blank Google Doc

"The journey from an online stranger to your favorite person" :- kindness exists dude.

idk it just feels so good when you realize a fandom friend has become ur friend friend—y’know? like instead of only talking about ur common interest u start branching out and talking to each other about your lives, your other hobbies, and it’s even cooler to remain close if one or both of you lose interest in the fandom you met in. your bond, no longer dependent on the mutual love you had for some thing—now lies upon the kinship you’ve built. i think that’s beautiful

“Please — consider me a dream.”

— Franz Kafka; ‘Once while visiting his friend Max Brod, young Kafka awakened Brod’s father, who was asleep on a couch. Instead of apologizing, Kafka gently montioned him to relax, advanced through the room on tiptoe, and said softly: “Please – consider me a dream.”’ from Franz Kafka (Franz Baumer)

So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to a private school and, like a bad organ transplant, it didn’t take. I was miserable, the student body hated me, I hated them, it was awful.

Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.

One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.

All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol’ middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.

So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.

Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”

And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.

Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.

One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.

That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.

And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.

And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)

So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.

Mr. Hargrove showed me my dissent was valid, my rebellion was righteous, and that killer slugs could bring a city to its knees. Someone just needs to write it.

“The Good Fight” Ada Limón, “Infinite Jest” David Foster Wallace, “Ophelia” John Everett Millais, “Red Doc” Anne Carson, “I wanted to be the knife” Sara Sutterlin, “A primer for the small weird loves” Richard Siken, “First memory” Louise Glück.