There is a certainty to keeping something secret. Once you share it, it can take on a life of it’s own. Better to keep it sealed up, cello-wrapped in opaque plastic—preferably in black, you know, if it’s handy—sterilized and safe.
Um, right?
There is a certainty to keeping something secret. Once you share it, it can take on a life of it’s own. Better to keep it sealed up, cello-wrapped in opaque plastic—preferably in black, you know, if it’s handy—sterilized and safe.
Um, right?
It’s embarrassing how much time has passed since my last post. Over a year and a half. My daughter’s first birthday set off a chain reaction, not the least of which was the dropping of her morning nap…and subsequently, my writing time.
Then came my own birthday, and the mind-fucking that was wrapped up in those shiny, innocent looking boxes. Thirty I had survived fine, though I might need to thank post-partum hormones. The spiral that began with my 31st surprised me.