Sharing the love

Hello, readers!

Today I woke up to find my wife had written something. One of my joys in life is reading her. So, instead of reading me that’s what I offer you today, reading her. When I started blogging I used to write for her all the time, these woman who understands my train of thought like no one else does. Samples of affection as clear as ice and water in a glass. I might do that next week, so brace yourselves. In the meantime, check out her latest post.

AUGUST 3 Things seem to happen in alliterations for me, more so than in 3s. Even though The Wizard Of Oz is one of my favorite movies, I rarely get to say “something, something and something, oh my!”. It’s one of those satisfactions I’d really like to experience; I hear it’s all about the simple pleasures.

via August 3| On closets & conversations —

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Until next time, readers!


Destination: Mississippi

I’m back, readers!

The past few weeks were pretty hectic, but I can officially say my semester is over. Not only that, but I got an A in Statistics which is like a Christmas miracle except better. Mostly because it means I don’t have to retake the class.


Now that I’m back we’re hitting the ground running by diving into Mississippi. Instead of focusing on the state, I decided to read a story that’s set there. Specifically a place called Jefferson, Mississippi where William Faulkner set most, if not all of his narratives. Of course, Jefferson isn’t a real town, but it’s modeled after Oxford where Faulkner spent most of his life.

I don’t know what I was expecting when I read A Rose for Emily, but what I read wasn’t it. Or it was right up until the necrophilia… I promise to deviate from the corpse loving for the next book. Between Child of God and this you’d think I have a thing for stiffs. And I do, just not this kind. *ba dum tss* You know you missed my terrible jokes, don’t lie.

So, Miss Emily is as shocking in death as she was haughty in life. She’s an institution, whether she’s a mental institution or not isn’t confirmed until she dies and they find her dead husband on a bed upstairs. And a long gray hair on the pillow next to his. What?

And I bet the people of Jefferson just ate that up. High class lady with a superiority complex dies, only for people to discover she was murderer and a necrophiliac. It’s the old version of going through people’s browser history when they die. You go through their house, looking for valuables and secrets. This is why I’ve made it very clear that I want to be cremated and buried with seeds, but also that my browser history should be deleted immediately and never spoken of again. #RespectTheDead

It’s something similar to reading someone’s diary. Which we do all the time when famous people die and someone decides to publish their journals, their notes or letters. I can’t imagine that they would be thrilled knowing everyone is reading their deepest thoughts. Although, there’s that theory that says if people write something it’s because on some level they want it to be read.

Did Emily want someone to find her husband’s dead body? Of course, it was around because she slept with it, but she could’ve left instructions with her man servant to bury it once she died. Maybe she wanted these people who judged her to know she had love, twisted as it may have been. Maybe I’m taking this entire thing out of context. I probably am.

Don’t love people to death with arsenic, is what I’m going to end with. Love them in life with passion and acceptance. And, for the love of god, clear your browser history you pervs.

Until next time, readers.

SST Presents Coppee

Short Story Thursdays is a weekly dispatch. Every week you get little known stories in PDF format, accompanied by a short intro and commentary by the guy who runs the whole thing.I started this series called “SST Presents”, so named because that’s the subject title on the emails, to share those stories with you. If you’d like to subscribe, send an email to

Good evening, readers.

Thursday has come at a weird angle for me. Nothing inherently wrong or bad has happened, but nothing has quite gone right either. It was a series of mildly unfortunate events. It’s left me in a weird mood where I’m not upset in any way, but I’m not happy or at ease. Today has been like being out of synch with the world, like watching a bad video where people’s mouths move before the audio comes through.

An Accident

by Françoise Coppee

Today’s SST dispatch came with undertones of sadness and maybe a sort of angst that I can readily identify with today. After reading the email, I was ready to be heartbroken by this story and I wasn’t disappointed. I was nearly in tears after reading today’s story, maybe just a single tear fueled by a kind of ache for this man who just wanted to love someone else. A man who knew he wasn’t pretty and was willing to wait for a woman to love him in time. Who sought pardon for his mistakes, but only with minor regret knowing she would be happier.

This story is a confession within a confession. This priest who presides over a lonely, little frequented parish finally finds himself with a penitent. After only hearing “the uninteresting confessions of some good women”, he’s surprised to find a man waiting to confess his sins. Let me tell you, this is not an uninteresting confession, although I think he was a good man.

I feel so sad for his lot in life, I can’t even bring myself to condemn him for his actions. There’s a certain beauty in his pain, devoted as he was to a woman who left him for someone else. A woman he stayed close to, whose child he loved, who he helped throughout the years with the little money he had.

For some reason the image I have in my head is of a human version of Eeyore. I picture this guy humble, eyes sad with old pain, but not weighed down by it, a kind of peaceful acceptance of what his life was. And maybe I’m projecting, maybe I’m remaking this fictional man in my sadness’ image. I’m okay with that.

The guy who writes the emails was asking himself why hurting could feel good, that ability to find comfort in pain. I think feeling and accepting someone else’s pain helps ease our own. Those knots in our soul that we can’t quite figure out or give voice to, come undone when we let ourselves ache. Even if it’s for a fictional character. The pain is still there, but it becomes more bearable, maybe easier to work through. I don’t know. But I do feel a bit better now, so maybe there’s something to it after all.

Gentle reminder to subscribe to SST. The stories are solid, the dispatches are usually funny, sometimes serious like the one for today, but always a pleasure to read. I’m not getting paid for this. There’s no affiliation to SST. I just really like the concept and I think the stories they send are worth reading and sharing. So, subscribe. It’s free. Do it. Ok, maybe not so gentle.

Have a good one, readers. Until next time.

Alphabet Soup: W is for Wife

This segment titled Alphabet Soup: The alphabet according to someone with very little shame and a lot of time on her hands was inspired by blogger Mandy Wallace and the Writers of Kern A to Z challenge. Enjoy!

Happy Friday, readers!

I hope you’re all doing well and getting ready for the weekend! My version of that is to stay at home studying all day because tomorrow I have my grad school admission test. Wuuuuuut?! Terrifying stuff, man. I haven’t taken a math class since high school. So, I’m hoping the cram session will do me some good. And what am I going to do afterwards, you ask? I’m taking my wife to Disneyland! Nah, I’m too broke for that. I’ll probably take her out for a beer though, or something.

W is for Wife

People always react weirdly when I say I have a wife. First they assume I’m legally married to someone and also a lesbian, then when I clarify it’s neither they dismiss the whole thing as a trend. And it definitely is a trend, girls saying they’re married to their best friends. It’s usually just another term for best friend though, which doesn’t make it less just different.

When I say she’s my wife, I mean I’d probably actually marry her. The closest I can come to describing it is being in an asexual relationship. She’s the one person I love doing nothing with. The one person I can picture spending the rest of my life with. Commitment with her, in any of its iterations doesn’t seem daunting. It seems normal, almost obvious.

I see her and I think she sees me, which is really all we’re looking for in life, isn’t it? We all want that person who is always there for us. Who gets our jokes, who listens, who is actively interested in what we have to say. That one person who is excited when good things happen for us, whose words are never empty.

So no, it’s not just a trend. I don’t just mean she’s my best friend, although she is that too. The fact that you don’t quite understand it, doesn’t mean it’s something to be dismissed. It’s real and kind of electrifying when you think about it. To have stumbled upon something so solid, so there. She makes me happy, ya know?

She’ll read this at some point. We’ll both be mildly embarrassed because neither one of us has any idea how to deal with feelings. It’s nice.

(By the way hwife, we’re going for a beer date tomorrow after my test. Yes? Yes. Kloveyoubai!)

Until next time, readers!

Alphabet Soup: T is for Truths

This segment titled Alphabet Soup: The alphabet according to someone with very little shame and a lot of time on her hands was inspired by blogger Mandy Wallace and the Writers of Kern A to Z challenge. Enjoy!

Hello, readers! It’s finally Friday and time for another post. Usually I’m upbeat and verbally energetic, but I was in a weird place when I was writing this post. It wasn’t anything bad and it didn’t really have to do with anything, I just didn’t feel like being cheerful. I was thinking about truth.

T is for Truths

We all have our own truths, swimming inside us. The ones we hide from ourselves and the ones that are too bright to ignore. These things that are real and solid, that settle at the bottom of our soul and anchor us to the world. They give us shape and movement, but most of all they give us substance. They become part of our essence, changing our scent and hiding in the waves of our hair. They whisper and scream and laugh and cry. And we let them because they’re us and, try as we might, we can’t help being ourselves. Here are some of mine…

1. I hate being reassured. Being reassured makes me feel like someone is trying to blind me with rose colored glasses. Claustrophobic.

2. I love my best friend more than anyone else, exempting my mother and grandmother.

3. I’m always surprised when people say I’m confident. It feels like a lie when I spend so much time feeling small and afraid.

4. Try as I might the future seems like a made up thing. Until it’s there and I wonder how it could be anything but real.

5. I still cry over the death of my first dog. Sometimes I don’t know how much I need to cry, about him and life, until I can’t stop the tears.

Until next time, readers.

Alphabet: S is for Side by Side

This segment titled Alphabet Soup: The alphabet according to someone with very little shame and a lot of time on her hands was inspired by blogger Mandy Wallace and the Writers of Kern A to Z challenge. Enjoy!

It’s Fridaaaaaayyyyyyyy. #Excitement

S is for Side by Side

It’s currently 1:21am. I’m sitting in front of my best friend, while we sip Hot White Chocolate. She’s on her computer. I’m on mine. There are moments when we don’t speak. There’s music on. This has been going on for approximately 5 hours. And it sounds like we’ve run out of things to do, but this was the plan. She came over expressly for this, this being absolutely mundane in each other’s company.

There’s something to be said for it. Sitting next to her, the silence feels like home. Like making everything else irrelevant. Like understanding what people say when they talk dreamily about not needing anyone else. She mutters under her breath, while I surf the web aimlessly.

Suddenly a song comes on, we start singing at the same time. Bobbing our heads in exactly the same way. Because we’ve danced together enough to get to that place. Enough to anticipate, to merge our styles – my head sways, her fist pumps.

And I can’t help but wonder if our hearts have synchronized. If our breath flows in tandem, a push and pull of the world around us that’s never the same, but complementary. I wonder if the world has learned to grow around us. Covering us in layers of time, fine powders that get into everything. The sands of time settle in the corners of this thing we’ve built. And it’d be so easy to drown in them with someone else. But she’s not someone else. She’s the silence I look forward to. The person that makes the mundane something to look forward to. The one who makes forever seem like not enough.

She’s still in next to me. Skyping with someone. The hot chocolates are gone. TLC is on. Life goes on, but it goes on better with her. You know?

Until next time, readers!

Destination: Christmas #9

This Christmas series is brought to you thanks to Book Riot’s Literary Advent Calendar. It’s a combination of poetry, short stories, and essays. I’ll be posting every day, some days twice to keep up with my regular posts. Click the story title for the full text. Now, let’s get this Christmas show on the road!

Day 9

The Burglar’s Christmas

by Elizabeth L. Seymour

Guess who forgot to write yesterday’s Christmas post? This girl, right here! The show must go on, however. So today I’m picking up at #9.

Christmas is that time of year where we allow ourselves to believe in miracles. Small mercies and little surprises that make the season glow with the combined anticipation of everyone who participates of it. We want to believe that we can be redeemed, cleansed under the falling snow to reemerge someone kinder and more capable of love.

The protagonist of this story had such an opportunity. He was surprised out of poverty and the brink of death, only to stumble back into the arms of a family he’d thought lost to him for good. The Holiday season is one where we dare to hope for something better. We hope that the Grinch or Scrooge in our life will see the error of his ways. That come Christmas morning their hearts will have grown three sizes. That they will love us better, love us finally.

We also hope for ourselves. Little miracles that seem small compared to the feat that is making a heart expand. Song after song, begging Santa to leave cushioned boxes full of love under the tree. The wrapping paper concealing so many possibilities. Schrodinger’s Christmas. Except we open the box, we find sweaters and batteries for toys we don’t play with anymore. And we’re still the same people. And all that hope was for nothing.

But every year we open up our hearts to the possibility of more. We hope. And believe. And approach the tree with our hearts on our sleeves. Looking for love in all the wrong places.

I hope you find the love you’re looking for this season, readers.

Have a good one!