Bought a house on a plot of land built for apples, three miles north.
I separated from my long-time comrade. We’re still friends. We co-parent. Our child thinks of us as heroes, but we fly without capes.
The fake IRS stole money from me via telephone in the driver’s seat of my car. I wanted to burn it afterwards, my car.
In November, a long essay I’ve been working on will make it’s way onto the pages of a book. It’s about trying to get off of the internet, its endless scroll.
Unless it features a slice of sky, I rarely take pictures with my phone anymore.
A woman named Delana taught me how to put together a toilet.
I bought a drill and have a slight desire to build a sauna out back under the hydrangea tree.
Hands ache from house paint and carpet glue removal.
For years I didn’t eat cheese, now I do.
