I tell myself stories. About what happened. About what’s true. I use them to paper my life. Sometimes I sit and look at them and feel the heat coming off of them or dab at the drips that ooze down. I snap them up from other people when I corner them at parties and ask them questions that I am told make them uncomfortable. But I can’t resist. I want to know. And I tear off pieces of them and paste them over and around the things I tell myself.

This blog is not a bullhorn. It’s not blasting out so others can hear. It’s an invitation to a secret room. I’ve been listening. And I made a thing.


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