Piercing my witch’s nose
From the time I was a little girl, thought that nose rings were pretty. We were allowed a single ear piercing and tasteful earring rings, although the parameters of which were entirely at the discretion of my parents and sometimes made random sense. But they made it very clear that if the boys ever came home with a ear piercing like “a homosexual”, or if the girls pierced our noses, they would be ripped out. Plain and simple. I don’t believe I ever heard my parents say “faggot” but the message for my brothers was clear, the consequences would be far more dire for them than a shredded ear lobe.
The Farmers’ Market that never Happened (But is the Reason You’re Reading This Right Now)
Since I have a whole timeline of writerly tasks I’m bound and determined to complete this summer, I did what any other obsessive planner would do and worked backward. Paramount was launching this website. But to make sure I’d stick to that goal, I contacted my local farmers’ market about getting a booth. What does a website have to do with sourdough bread, goat’s milk soap, and fresh berries, one might ask? Nothing, directly and everything motivationally.
Notes from a barf bag
Next to me, a remarkably slim 20-something is taking up all her seat and 50% of mine, a feat she manages while munching donut holes and watching Gillmore Girls on her laptop. It’s mystifying but rather than comment on her wildly swinging legs and arms that keep bumping me, I make my lg/xl frame as small as possible, smashing myself against the plane wall like I’m drywall putty. Oh, for paper! How’d I’d eviscerate her in fiction!