The Way We Are

Memories. They not only light the corners of my mind, they’re stacked so high back there, it’s like an episode of Hoarders. Whether misty water-colored or neon bright, I can’t imagine throwing one out. 

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Cutting the Cord

Wait! Did I just imply I’m victim to my cable provider? Well, yes. For whenever you hear a tale of woe, especially any sort of chronic complaint, we’ve painted ourselves a victim. Of course, “chronic complaint” would be a genial way to describe the utter frustration I feel towards the telecommunications behemoth.

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Can Do

Tis bliss and nothing less than absolute conviction when one shakes a can of Comet and sprinkles that pastel green powder onto a dirty surface. To do so is to know change is imminent.

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In MusingCarole Vasta Folley
The PH Blues

If I played guitar, not in a strumming- sing-around-the-campfire kind of way, but more like Bonnie Raitt’s slide guitar that moans melancholy and emanates yearning with every string, I’d pick up that instrument today and compose the post-holiday blues.

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The Goodbye Girl

I am terrible at saying goodbye. This, I know, to be a truth. It has always been the case. There is a simple ripping in my chest when even thinking about saying the word, let alone acknowledging the feeling.

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