A friend I knew through dog rescue, a woman I'd never personally met but admired nonetheless, lost her battle with depression the other night. She overdosed while I flitted around a reading, talking shit with Michael and Marcus, acting the know-it-all as always.
I'd reached out and she responded with a simple thanks and I never wrote back. Living with that sucks.
Sometimes you have to stop yourself from writing the words.
They’ll make it too real, too quickly, too painfully. If you have to walk away,
take your teeth to your lip, your fingernails to your palms, that is what you
have to do.
My baby is going to be two tomorrow! The time feels rich, full, and wonderful. Yesterday we walked the streets of Isla Vista and I showed him where I went to school. He sucked on a smoothie from Blenders and took it all in.
We're in Southern California for the weekend, a trip that necessitated cancelling two storytelling events that I was really anticipating.
I was not happy.
As we drove down, I felt as though the pieces that were me were not fitting together. Part of that is dreading being down here (although right now we're in Pismo Beach and I could stay here for a good long while ... but we're headed to the San Fernando Valley, which is a completely different story). We're heading into an awful heat wave and dragging Baz and the dogs into it with us.
I got sick. SICK. Sick like I was asking Adam to pull over every fifteen minutes so I could just stand on my feet and lean against the car, breathing in the fresh air.
The last time I was on the Central Coast, I got pregnant. Uh, I think this may be different.
I'm a writer and storyteller in Berkeley, CA. If you're wondering where that is, follow the smell of patchouli and skunkweed. There you'll find me with my kickass husband, gorgeous little boy, and manic Lab-Australian Shepherd mix pups. I'm represented by Miriam Altshuler of DeFiore & Co., but of course, my views are my own.