I love you, Mom. Happy birthday.
I guess the story arc I'm writing is just...life.
This is a systemic failure, and being angry with one another won't fix it.
Probably not the uplifting holiday content you were looking for.
Somewhere ahead of me is "new normal," but I can't see it yet, so I don't know what it looks like.
I miss you, strangers at Wendy's.
If I want to be able to draw the way I draw in my head, I'll draw the damn circles.
My mother rejects the Oxford comma.
It always comes back to the personal, doesn't it?
I've learned that dreams can cripple you. But maybe only if you let them.