I have this dream that I'd be myself again, more fully than possible. I'd write, and I'd keep writing. I'd have the night again, the way I do when I'm manic, that delicious slice of silence I can do what I want with. I wouldn't be tired. I wouldn't be tired. I wouldn't be tired. Motherhood takes something from you. It gives you so much, they say! So much. Sure. It also takes. I'm homesick for silence, and time, and the ability to do things for myself without guilt.

The genres have lately divided like they think they're continents rather than dialects, and the ground is shifting. I'm not in any way, shape, or form claiming to have invented the wheel. If anything, I'm just trying to figure out how to point at it. Look! There it is! We've been saying quite a lot with Sc-Fi since the beginning of time.

For a while, I wanted to be an archeologist. It wasn't because of Indiana Jones. I actually hadn't heard of Indiana Jones until I participated in a summer shadow study: something my middle school was all about, where we went out into the workforce and followed some adult around at our dream job. My dad found me an archeologist at the history museum--someone he'd worked with at Penn--and I showed up in her dusty office with my dreams all on my sleeve.

Almost six years ago now, I spent my first night in rehab. Two days after they seized our daughter, one day after I had to put my dog to sleep. The staff took the little framed picture I'd brought of my baby girl when I came in. They took my dog's collar. I'd argued, and the woman had laughed. "You can't keep a…

Covid is spreading, but incarcerated people are being told vaccines aren't necessary.

My dad's memorial was this past weekend. I've never handled funerals well. This one was particularly threatening to my sanity, and not just because it was my dad. I've never quite meshed with my stepfamily. Not quite because of the common child-of-divorce delusion that their parents should be together. I never really believed that, even during their brief early stint of that.