Forgive Me, Diary, for I have Lapsed,
It's been twenty-five years since my last entry ... journal notation... letter to myself...whatever...
My BFF sometimes worries that I record her life events with commentary of my own -- slanderous perhaps, or libelous, if I type it here: "I shudder to think what you put in your journal about me," she has said to me more than once.
I don't have the heart to tell her I don't keep a journal.
Or, I didn't.
Until today.
Wait, that is not true. I have a few notebooks I saved from my nine-through-twenty-three years. Some are spiral bound, some are thread-bound; one has Strawberry Shortcake on the front cover, sun hat atop her signature curls and a watering can in hand -- it's a dream journal that I kept when I was nine -- the year my parents got divorced. At some time I had cut the strap that held the sides of the tiny, brass padlock in place, proof of my youthful negligence; a lost key and no patience to search for it. I tried to re-read the dream journal entries after I became a "grown up," and my only take-away is that I was a weird kid.
This shocks no one.
But dear, dear Diary, we are not here for this — nostalgia. I'm looking forward to 2016. It's a milestone year for me. If all goes as it should during the upcoming presidential election, it's a milestone year for all American women. It's been nice, in the past eight years, to see American politics go beyond the usual "old white dude" paradigm. I'm all for continuing that trend.
I've changed so much, dear Diary, since I last bothered to coalesce my thoughts in this format. For starters, I consider myself a better writer -- all this practice has not gone amiss (that is a self-esteem thing...I have a stack of rejection letters). I'm wiser -- I won't say in what ways. More foolish, too. You would be amazed what you can learn about yourself if you live long enough, and if you allow yourself to try things you never tried, taste broth you never sipped, suggest adventures to others that you could scarcely conceive for yourself and found yourself disappointed when no one else liked the idea. Irony becomes a friend and gravity an enemy, if you live long enough. If you're lucky...
Dear Diary, am I lucky?
30Dec2015. KHN
Be where you are * Want what you have * Say what you mean * Mean what you say. If everyone in the world followed any one of these good ideas, the world would be a better place. Opinions and fiction by Kim Norris, writer, editor, and lover of ramen.
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Thursday, December 3, 2015
The NRA Won and We’re All Screwed (In the Category of Say What You Mean)
Two shootings this week. Two! I’m past angry, I’m
despondent, and that is unusual for me. I typically fall into the category of
annoying optimist. The National Rifle Association (NRA) won; they own America
and we’re all going to die from a bullet one way or another.
It could be a toddler that grabs a legally purchased gun and
points it at us, because he’s seen it done on TV or watched Daddy do it. The
gun isn’t supposed to be loaded of course, with children so close in proximity,
but it is. Bang. As
of this October, young’uns were gunning themselves and the grownups down at a
rate of about one a week. Why? Because they have easy access to a loaded
gun.
It could be the angry kid that shoots us in school – any
school – any age – with a gun they legally purchased or their parents did. I’ve
called Blacksburg, Virginia home since 1984, even now, though I live in the
next town over. I wince whenever Virginia Tech comes up as the number still to
beat as far as mass shootings go. It makes me want to take 32 flowers to the
memorial on the drillfield, place one by each stone, and weep again for the
potential forces for positive change that the world lost that horrible day.
We could be walking home munching a bag of skittles when a
racist gun nut, with a legally purchased gun, decides we are scary and shoots us.
We could be attempting to evade a store security guard who caught us
shoplifting when the self-righteous gun nut with a legally concealed, legally
purchased weapon decides to be judge, jury, and executioner for what is not, in
any jurisdiction, a capital crime. Worse, we could be innocently caught in the
gun nut’s fire. (Luckily for shoppers at this particular store, this
crazy bitch was a bad shot.)
We could be at a medical facility, or a church, a synagogue,
a mosque, a rally for our Senator, or a movie theater, and someone with their
own political or religious agenda, or their own personal beef, could show up
and open fire on us and everyone around us and kill or injure many of us in
seconds. Why? Because some dumbass in the NRA thought it would be cool to give Americans
easy access to military style, high powered, high capacity, semi-automatic
weapons that can spray dozens of bullets in only a few seconds.
As a powerful shill for gun and munitions manufacturers, the
NRA has systematically blocked every reasonable policy and political candidate
that might suggest restricting the types and numbers of fire arms that
Americans can buy. Every card-carrying member of the NRA has blood on their
hands. They fund this tyranny. They help give the NRA the money it needs to buy
politicians and keep the sale of all types of guns and bullets flowing
unimpeded in America. I hope they are pleased with themselves, all the men and
women who have financed the greatest engine for violence and bloodshed the
world has ever seen.
The ridiculously easy access to guns and bullets ensured and
protected by the NRA has led to a saturation of armament in our society. It is
all too easy to settle even the littlest of life’s frustrations by pulling out
a gun, legally purchased, and shooting whoever annoyed us. The gun
nut who murdered a kid for playing music at a volume he disagreed with just got
convicted. One less gun nut on the streets, but nothing will bring back the
dead seventeen-year-old. The flood of legally purchased guns has also
well-armed the gangs and felons that contribute to the narrative of gun
violence in America, and all because the NRA has backed the gun makers rather
than the citizens of this country. It’s about profit. It’s about greed. It’s
about control. It’s not about keeping Americans safe and it never was. Even the
majority of NRA members agree that gun control is an important issue, but the
organization continues to push against it; why are these members still paying
dues? Surely they give enough support to the gun makers by purchasing guns and
ammunition.
I know someone whose co-worker, an NRA member, brags that he
buys a new gun and another 1,000 rounds after every mass shooting because he thinks the president (whom he refers to by the n-word)
will have a chance to stop gun sales in America. He has no tolerance for gays,
either, and he has amassed an arsenal greater than most police forces. All
anyone can do is hope he doesn’t choose to act on his intolerance or snap,
because it is all completely legal. Of course even if he snaps, he gets to keep
buying guns. Thanks to NRA efforts, folks who know they are mentally ill do not
have to disclose their mental illness to gun dealers because of privacy issues.
I knew someone who was murdered by a gun. I knew someone who
used easy access to his gun to end his own life. If you come to visit me in my
beautiful mountain home, expect me to take you to see 32 white stones in a
semicircle of grief. Gun violence is personal to me. It’s personal to every
person gun violence has touched. Yesterday, it got personal to the families of thirty-one
innocent people who were either killed or wounded while celebrating the
holidays with their co-workers, one of whom got angry and got a gun—a legally
purchased gun.
Thank the NRA and all of its card-carrying members who help fund the madness. Many more will die.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Happy Halloween!
I love Halloween, I really do, more for its ancient pagan roots than the candy and toasted pumpkin seeds, but don't get me wrong. I love those too. To celebrate Halloween this year, I decided to publish my recent ghost story over on my fiction blog. If you dare, click here to read Bones Never Lie.
Happy Halloween!
Happy Halloween!
Monday, June 22, 2015
The Perks of the Road Less Traveled (In the Category of Be Where You Are.)
Ellett Road As Seen On Google Maps |
My BFF called me at a few minutes after 7:00 am this morning
to warn me that my normal commute, the 460W bypass between the town where I
live and the town where I work, was a parking lot, the result of a car accident.
Minutes before I was to depart, my husband, who leaves before me due to a slightly
longer commute (nine miles to my five), called to confirm BFF’s report and add
that town was also now crawling with traffic. Word of the backup was making its
way around, and folks savvy enough to take the business route were doing
so. “You can’t get there from here,” he said.
There are few roads between the town where I live and the
town where I work, but I know them all. My favorite is the two-lane country
road that cuts through Ellett Valley, a small patch of heaven tucked away in
the Blue Ridge Mountains. It winds along the path of Wilson creek as it flows
toward the North Fork of the Roanoke River, over bridges, under bridges, around
hairpin curves, all beneath glossy green eaves. Houses and farmland
intermingle. Between them both, there is space. I know this road well. It was
once my daily commute, and, should I choose to get up a little earlier and
leave a little sooner, it still could be. I usually sleep.
But today, traffic snarled in the two most obvious
directions, I went the opposite way and took that two-lane road less traveled,
the long way to town, because at least my wheels would keep spinning, not sit
idly in a traffic jam. With my choice, came unexpected perks – encounters I
usually don’t have on my morning commute. For example, I hadn’t even made it
out of my suburban neighborhood before I had to yield the right of way to a
beautiful doe and her even prettier spotted fawn crossing the road. The fawn,
all legs, had to work twice has hard to keep up with graceful Mama Doe. Suddenly,
I no longer grudged the eaten day lilies in my front flower bed. Perhaps the
little one was hungry....
As I made my way through the valley, other fauna joined me.
For a short time, a juvenile male northern cardinal flew along side me before
winging across the creek. As I slowed for a curve, a brown rabbit
hippity-hopped in front of me, and I broke all the rules, swerving to avoid its
fluffy white tail, grateful the road is rural and that no traffic occupied the
other lane. A few minutes later, I foolishly repeated this process to spare the
life of a gray squirrel. With the sun roof open – it’s the cool of the day –
birdsong competed with the sounds of NPR on my car radio; the bluebird’s chirp chirp chirp tweeeeeee has become
familiar to me, language lessons from the nesting pair in my back yard. White
lambs littered a lush green field on one side. Two horses and a donkey stood
munching a roll of hay on the other.
I began to climb the hill into town, and a passing bicyclist
nodded at me as he headed around a curve and down into the valley. I wondered
about his path. Would he turn right and follow the road back the way I had just
come, see the lambs and miss the bunny? Would he bear left, follow the road
around to Luster’s Gate – it’s the less hilly route. Would he follow the main
road straight on to other curvy paths less taken? Not that it mattered much –
all his choices end with a steep ascent out of Ellett Valley, a leg-breaking
pump action that I could never imagine attempting. I envied him briefly,
though, the wind in his face, the coolness of the morning surrounding his limbs
even as the haze began to burn away, promising the day’s heat to come.
Later,
if it rains, steam will rise from the road, followed by fireflies and the
moon — nature’s street lights. The valley will lose itself in comfortable darkness save for an old pickup truck with one headlight to pierce the night and illuminate
the way.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Safety Dance (In the Category of Be Where You Are.)
Say, we can
act if we want to
If we don't, nobody will
And you can act real rude
and totally removed
And I can act like an
imbecile
And say, we
can dance, we can dance
[“Safety
Dance” by Men Without Hats]
I’ve been reading about “safe spaces” more than usual lately, you
know, the metaphorical and literal environment we create for ourselves with
each other so that we can pretend to avoid the risk of rejection or ridicule. It comes in handy while discussing topics that may or may not be comfortable for us to discuss. I
credit Starbucks although I doubt they intended this consequence when they started
the #RaceTogether coffee cup hashtag. As a non-coffee drinker, I first worried that
some caffeinated person wanted me to run a 5K with them. Then I read the PR and
realized the Starbucks' CEO expected his baristas to engage customers in
conversations about racial equality.
Smart, funny, bold coffee addicts populate the majority of
my Twitter timeline; they go to Starbucks, and this past week some of them asked
the barista to start the conversation. That’s how I learned that the Starbucks’
baristas have been given no script and very few guidelines on how to conduct a
conversation about race relations in America, which seems risky. What if the
barista is actually a closet racist faking a tolerant mindset just to keep the
job? How would that conversation go? But I digress.
Whether or not Starbucks artfully executed the program, they
at least started a conversation, and that is never a bad thing. But it has led
to some sidebars about “safe spaces” in which to conduct difficult dialog, and
whether or not such spaces exist. Earlier today, a Tweep shared an article link
to a New
York Times op-ed piece on the topic that piqued me.
The article begins with the author detailing the “safe
space” created at Brown University in response to a debate being held to
discuss campus rape culture. The potential for a nuanced and informed exchange
of ideas to make rape survivors feel invalidated may or may not be a dominant
concern, but a few students saw the risk and created a safe space for attending
rape survivors who might experience a trigger during the debates. This space they
stocked with “cookies,
coloring books, bubbles, Play-Doh, calming music, pillows, blankets and a video
of frolicking puppies, as well as students and staff members trained to deal
with trauma.” The trained students and staff members made perfect sense to
me, but bubbles?
The space sounded more like my old kindergarten classroom. Were
the victims children? If so, I could understand it, but how were cookies and
coloring books going to help college-aged women work through the trauma, talk
about the nightmares, face the triggers, and learn to defeat them? How would
Play-Doh educate their friends, sisters, brothers, parents, and lovers on how
to better show compassion? The space sounded more escapist than safe.
I retweeted the article with my own two cents thrown in:
“Cookies and coloring books? Are they ten?” I did not ask the questions
sarcastically (although I own that sarcasm is my usual demeanor where retweets are
concerned). I sincerely did not understand how coloring books made a place
safe. My questions reverberated as snark though, and someone else on Twitter
quickly reminded me that the person who created the space was “a rape survivor,
but whatevs,” which is Twitterspeak for “but if you want to be an asshole, just
know I think you are being an asshole and shame on you.” (At least that is how I use “whatevs.”)
Twitter likes to shame. Twitter
is no safe space.
The world is no safe space.
And college is supposed to be
teaching that.
Humans can create the illusion of safe space – we can fill
the metaphoric room of our choice with like-minded people and promise not to
step on each other’s toes while we do a safety dance of political correctness. We’ll hold
conversations on pre-approved topics with expected emotional responses ranging
from mild interest to active encouragement. We’ll discourage negative criticism,
everyone wins a trophy, and those who disrupt the order, we will shun. In this
bubble we’ll convince ourselves we are enlightened. It is the ultimate denial.
In that “safe” space, we lose our ability to think
critically, to argue successfully, to change a mind, plead a cause, march for
reform. I think we also lose empathy for one another – that necessary element –
the only hope to keep Homo Sapiens
from fully devolving into sociopathic narcissists. So many people prefer to
avoid uncomfortable truths or refuse to listen to the stories told by fellow humans of racial
injustice, sexual violence, abuse, and oppression. In the absence of conversation , they (we, I) never learn to
understand the courage of those who experience it, survive, and press on. Those
in true denial delude themselves into thinking it doesn’t happen often or only
to people who deserved it. It provides their rationale to ignore the calls for change
or the suggestions that one could do better. In the blind eye turned, others
perpetuate the violence, parrot the old hatreds, and create a new generation of
intolerance. The space is anything but safe.
More baffling is why today’s future leaders think safe
spaces are necessary. No one ever taught me something by agreeing with me. I
was schooled in how to debate and raised with an open mind. I learned more through
hard conversations with others who, rightly or wrongly, believed I was the
problem, than I learned in books and movies, which are skewed by their creators’
personal biases. As a teenager I was threatened with a beating for my whiteness
while walking home after school: “Didn’t you see Roots? Don’t you remember slavery?” Rhetorical questions unanswered
by my feeble “yes” and “no, I wasn’t alive then.” In that moment, I had no safe
space, and it was a hard conversation.
My takeaway from that scary experience? Getting judged based
only on skin color really fucking sucks. I empathized. I quit doing that to
others.
I was never informed by being called a name either, and I have been
called many, but I don’t care. If you have resorted to that, you have lost the
debate. Your toolbox is empty, and your clue bag is filled with trash.
We each have the power to create a safe space, not just for
ourselves but also for others. It’s a choice we make – recognize shared common
ground, celebrate what’s different in ourselves and in others -- dance if we
want to.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Breaking Up With Twitter on a Saturday Night (In the Category of Mean What You Say.)
@KStreetHipster broke up with Twitter tonight. I watched it
happen. I wished her well. Whoever she really is, she is smart, and funny, and
bold. She Tweeted like she gave a shit, but maybe something in Twitter broke
her. Or maybe she got smart about the thinness of the thread and the use of
time allotted. It happens. I’ve seen it before.
Twitter is a strange playground. I’ve met Tweeps in real life; we have become friends -- I love them now. Other Tweeps I wish I could meet; we live only four hours away and they make my Twitterverse a happy place. I have left coast Tweeps and a few who live across The Pond. I still need to pin down logistics on how to tweetup with them, and my life will
be richer when I manage it.
I dig that KStreetHipster chose a Saturday night to tell Twitter, “Got
a life, need you not.” It adds to the drama – the Twitterverse got dumped like a
bad blind date; the nightmare of green beer on amateur night, the Saturday
before St. Patrick’s Day. She didn’t seem hostile or suicidal. I’ve seen those
sorts of Twitter farewells also. They scare me – calls for help I can’t answer.
I don’t mean to mock. Social media means different things to
different people. Even I, who thought I fully understood the connections I
could make in this ether, have met with the unexpected. It’s been wonderful, and sometimes, it has made me cry. Did I waste time? I could argue yes and no.
Certainly, I could do other things with the time I spend Tweeting but I can say
that about the time I spend writing, or baking, or gardening, or cleaning the
house. Playing with the kittens is as fruitless and fabulous as Twitter. I’m
mindful to be where I am.
I recall the first time I saw someone bid Twitter farewell. The
implied hubris amused me. It carried a certitude that one would be missed in
this digital world we all created together, reaching out to each other,
sometimes with teeth and claws. I get where it comes from – filling in the dash
– that spot between the day Mom birthed us and the day we died – but I never imagined
that if I just dropped off the grid, anyone would notice.
Whatever use @KStreetHipster will now make of her free time,
I hope it fulfills her soul. I hope she never looks back, never looks down,
never questions each second of breathing. I hope the keen edge of uncertainty leaves her uncut. I hope she finds meaning in the space.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
A Child’s Drawing Colored Outside the Lines and Crumpled in A Clear But Failed Attempt to Discard It (In the Category of Be Where You Are.)
I never dreaded aging, knowing, as I do, that it beats the
alternative. But Dad died suddenly and unexpectedly five days before my
forty-seventh birthday, and just today, a week out from my forty-ninth, I
realized that I now link my age increase with his sudden death.
It’s a bummer.
Before Dad died, my birthday, positioned near the last day
of winter, always conjured for me hopes of spring. Daffodils were usually out
by then, though that is not the case this year. The odd brave forsythia could
be spotted (again, not happening this year). As the equinox approached, the
angle of the sun bent back onto my deck, and things held an air of potential. I
had ideas to write and a conviction that the time spent writing them was time
spent well. I easily connected with that life force, that surety that I was
alive and living fully, with purpose.
I took it for granted.
***
For Christmas I received a 365 day calendar, the kind where
you tear off a new page each day. I find myself startled at how quickly the
thick stack of thin sheets printed in kittens and italicized wise words has
diminished. Today’s quote is Longfellow, sappy and contemplative. I like
tomorrow’s better: “The darkest hour has only sixty minutes.” (Morris Mandel)
It turns out that I don’t care for daily calendars. The need
to turn them regularly eludes me, and I end up peeling away weeks at a time to
get caught up. I lose the continuity of wisdom; it feels like skipping
chapters in a book, but I toss them unread. I do flip quickly to see the
pictures of the kittens, though. Daily calendars produce in me a psychological anxiety
similar to an hour glass – the surety of pages dwindling, the passage of time
and no means to prevent it, no matter how cute the kitten, no matter how wise
the words.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
A White Woman Runs Her Mouth about Racism (In the category of Mean What You Say.)
You would think I have more sense than to write about race,
“privileged” white woman that I am, but it’s Martin Luther King Junior’s
birthday, and the movie about him, Selma,
just got snubbed by the (mostly old, white, male)
Oscar nominating committee in all the actor categories as well as the Best
Director category, although it was nominated for Best Picture. (I guess it
directed itself.) I live in Virginia, one of the first colonies to bring
Africans to the new world and enslave them out of greed, callousness, and an
utter disregard for human life and dignity, and tomorrow, workers for the
Commonwealth will be given a paid holiday to honor Robert E. Lee and Stonewall
Jackson, Southern heroes of the “War of Northern Aggression” (I’m being facetious here,
but they actually still call it that in Savannah, Georgia) because the former capital
of the Confederacy just can’t get its racist head out of its bigoted ass.
And lately, the recent murders (not being facetious here) of
Mike Brown and Eric Garner, two unarmed black men taken down by white police
officers for various illegalities concerning tobacco products, have
me doing a lot of soul-searching about race relations in America; who with a
heart and a mind hasn’t been? It’s bullshit. America was supposed to be better
than this by now. I can clearly recall the elation I felt when Barack Obama won
the 2008 Presidential election. My sister called me just as the world was learning what the
Commonwealth of Virginia had done — we had voted blue, we had voted for Barack
Obama, and for the first time in my voting life, the candidate for whom I had cast
a ballot had actually won the Old Dominion. Sis and I wept joyful tears
together. Finally, we said, maybe, our country and our Commonwealth were
shedding the manacles of racism that have bruised every moment of American
history — happy thoughts; the audacity of hope.
But if the past six years have shown me anything, they have
shown that racism is alive and well and as insidious as ever. The 113th
Congress did everything in its power to thwart the success of a POTUS of color
right up to shutting down the country, an
economically disastrous gambit that hurt everyone everywhere except for
members of the House of Representatives. On a state level,
voting rights have been attacked in the name of preventing voter fraud, which
zero studies can show is a problem. Voting
districts are being redrawn in shapes that resemble the Jim Crow era, and
even the Supreme
Court refused to uphold the Voting Rights Act. On a local level, too many of
our police forces – now nearly as well equipped as our armed forces – act as though they have
redefined their role in the community from “protect and serve” to “shoot first,
ask later,” as poor Tamir
Rice’s family learned the hard way. At the very least we could hope for
justice – some semblance that the lives of all citizens matter to law
enforcement, but when the use of a banned
chokehold still won’t get a police officer charged with a wrongful death, it’s
hard to stay naive.
Mostly, I feel hopeless though. I know we need to get past
this racist bullshit in America, but I don’t know how. It doesn’t feel proactive
to simply wait for all the old white bigots to die and hope the next generation
won’t hold the same biases and fears. It’s important to me because if we can
solve our problems with race, then maybe we can move onto solving other issues,
like gender equality. Dare I say, perhaps we could even elect a female POTUS.
It seems like a logical next step, and anyway, all the cool
countries are getting female leaders. Why can’t we have one too?
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Smoking Dream (In the category of Be Where You Are.)
I was trying to edit in less-than-ideal conditions when this
show called Booze Traveler came on TV
(like I said, less-than-ideal conditions). Cute Dude and his crew were in
Spain, land of my birth, so instead of focusing on the one act play that I need
to rework, I watched Cute Dude knock back a combination of red wine and Coca-Cola, which offers a heady blend of alcohol and caffeine, a local favorite in Barcelona according to the Spanish lady showing Cute Dude around town. As they walked, she smoked, and it reminded me
of a dream I had the other night. In this dream, this time, I didn’t actually light the cigarette;
instead I told my dream self, “I don’t need this now.”
But I didn’t toss the cigarette either; I wiped the smooth
sides clean of the bits of tobacco leaf that cling to the paper when one slides a smoke out
of a fresh pack. I laid the cigarette on the table where I sat, placing it
beside an orange Bic lighter (I dream in color) to save it for later. As I
looked up, I realized I sat in the conference room at the company where I
worked right out of college. Several engineers, men, sat with me at the table
working on schematics and puffing away. A mushroom tobacco cloud filled the conference
room, and I thought to myself, no need to light another cigarette in here – just
breathe deeply. Then my alarm clock went off, and the shame of what I dreamt
swept over me.
Smoking dreams go like that – longing, restraint, mortification,
and disgust all combine into a powerful reminder of why I quit. I awoke feeling
off-balance and grumpy, the hangover of some unfulfilled nicotine fit that only
my brain experienced. The dream felt like backsliding, even though I remain a
former smoker. I think it is a metaphor for all the other things that I once had
a handle on that now feel slippery and uncertain: goals, friendships, raison d’ĂȘtres. I miss the clarity. I
miss feeling, if not relevant, at least not frivolous. I’ve lost confidence; my
muse is sick of my shit; the words are in my head, but my head sees no need to
bother my fingers with the drivel.
I should be editing the one act or figuring out where I was
on the unfinished novel. I should be working out every day; I
could sleep less, focus more, so much to do, seeds to plant, stories to tell. But
other stuff has gotten into my head – disappointments, frustrations,
realizations of fruitlessness, relationships I valued falling apart*, the
gut-wrenching process that comes with accepting that no matter how many lumps
of sugar one spoons in, one will not necessarily be everyone’s cup of tea.
The wet blanket weight of it has smothered my creative fire.
In its ash, a gritty mean voice inside my head has taken shape, recalling for
me in vivid detail all of my prior failures and embarrassments – all the
foolish things I wanted and arrogantly believed I could have and all the ways
those things were denied or taken away from me. I’m trying to silence this mental
monster, but so far, only clichés and pop songs come to mind: shake it off, let
it go, carry on, carry on. I still have no sense that any energy I invest on
any front will be well-spent, which makes it challenging to muster motivation.
It will pass, this feeling. I'm pretty sure -- it always has before. But it scares me worse than a smoking dream.
*My relationship with G. is not among them.
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