Every time I clean, I lose things. Organized chaos tells me exactly where things are.
I try not to get too philosophical about this.
Living my faith is harder for me than giving faith up.
I am more aware now of the reality of my privilegedness than I ever have been in my life.
Chocolate-flavored vodka is my jam, but I don’t put it on my bread.
I have forgotten how to blog.
Freedom means more to me than ever before, and it has not a smidgen to do with patriotism.
I am weary of holding my tongue. I wasn’t built for it. (And neither were you.)
Writing cover copy for a short story anthology is vastly different from writing cover copy for a novel. This sucks.
I have come to the conclusion that no one who cannot bear or has not borne a child should have the right to tell me when or how I should bear one.
I possess more materials for unbegun art projects than any one human should.
It’s okay if you end a sentence a preposition with.
I think I decided this after learning Koine Greek.
ἀγάπη is the highest, and no single English word expresses it adequately.
If I could tell my late-teens self any three things, it might be: (1) dye your hair and get a tattoo, (2) turn every moment of your life into the most glorious dance, (3) but don’t dance in front of that fireman named Michael, because he’s going to get the wrong idea and it’s gonna be really awkward later in front of your mom and his sister.
This year I have read only women authors, and it’s one of the best things I’ve ever done.
Nowadays I laugh at things I used to look down my nose at.
This isn’t a bad thing.
I still love sparklies.
I don’t think that’s ever gonna change.