...I know. You can't.
When I tell you what is wrong, you will argue with me about why I shouldn't be upset, or you will side with the ones who hurt me.
You will call it empathy to validate everyone's feelings but mine.
You will criticize me, or offer advice about why I am doing things wrong.
You will say I demand dishonesty when what I really need is for you to agree.
I have never asked you to lie and say you agree when you do not.
I need you to...

I was going to post it on Valentine's Day, but I knew I'd probably forget if I waited.

He's every bit as sweet in person as he is online, and even more fun than I expected. When he arrived, we were immediately comfortable with each other. We hugged, then proceeded to lounge about on the sofa chatting about artistic things, project ideas, and plans for the future. It was as though we had always known...

...and it was good.





I decided to take pictures of the strange texture of this food, because it appealed to me in a sick, semi-trypophobic kind of way. It looked like little holes stuffed with meat, or severed tear ducts.

I was in the hospital today when my grandmother died. I saw her take her last breath. It was unremarkable after sitting in a tiny room for several days in hopes of observing the event, like someone waiting in line for a concert, watching her children jump up to hold her hand every time she coughed in her sleep. I expected something more dramatic, having never seen anyone die except on the news and on those horrible videos my ex would make me watch. Sure, I've seen dead bodies at funerals, but...