I’ll be listening to Christmas carols, slowly unpacking our decorations, making gingerbread houses, and snuggling in with blankets and tea for those nights that start at 5:45 these days to watch some old classics for the next 8 weeks, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.
How many people have I written about in a spat of scorched earth? How many memories have I molded, twisted, and tossed into a work barely disguised to fit my narrative? Could I risk that, with my spouse, now, our little life together, my healing so important to me?
As I write this, there’s a gas shortage in North Carolina. Maybe you’ve heard about it. A pipeline hack led to panic buying and hoarding. Tonight, someone tweeted that 78% of gas stations in North Carolina are out of gas, the worst of any state right now.
Taylor Swift taught me how to talk about differing-gender relationships long enough to get out of my hometown, and later, my college town, a script that allowed me to appear authentic even as I was struggling to articulate, internally, what I wanted out of my life. And for that, I love her.
Whenever students get too close to me, I flinch. We leave the doors open for airflow because of COVID and I think of my training for active shooters, but you notice there’s no such thing as an inactive shooter?