I miss my kit-kat so much. I think about him every day. It still doesn't seem right that his food bowls are not on the floor, that he's not curled up in bed with us at night. Things just haven't been right since he left.
I've been writing lately. A ton. That doesn't necessarily mean pages and pages, though there are pages, just not as many as a ton might connote, and does this sentence even make sense? I'm writing well, I think, good stuff.
That's important. That's so important. If I didn't write, I'd go crazy. If I couldn't communicate, I'd chew my own fist off. A professor of mine once said: "I write to communicate", and sure enough, Wesley was right. I just want to get that chance.
Six years ago, I began something that continues strong through this day and -- fingers crossed -- far into the future. It's appropriate that I'm sitting at Philz Coffee right now, the place where we got married when it was still Cafe de la Paz.
I love you, baby. You see me at my worst and inspire me to be my best. Thank you.
Tonight we went to The Pub to get Adam cigarettes. The girl working the nonexistent cash register (they hand-tally each purchase) said: "I read your article in Salon." Then she thanked me for writing it.
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.