Red is the Color of My True Love, Yarn

This red afghan is still my whole heart at the moment. I keep worrying that it’s too busy, that maybe it should have just been a large, plain thing that would let you soak in this red and not have to focus on anything but the color of it.

But, argh, I love each square so much. And this second batch of squares seems to be going pretty quickly. I need 24 and I already have 8. I’m a little curious to see how fitting them together with the first squares will go, but I know two big squares fit 3 little squares. I just need a join with some flexibility because the little squares don’t have a flat edge. I was thinking about doing that join I did for the baby blanket, where you do a double crochet in each side, but I’m wondering if there’s such a thing as a chain stitch join that would give the join the flexibility of the double crochet join without taking up that much space.

But I’m most worried about how to transition from those medium squares to the large squares. I think my plan for the moment is to get the medium squares done and attached to the small squares and then to do the outer ring of large squares. This would give me the dimensions of the gap I need to fill between the medium squares and the large squares. Then I might just fill it with double crochets. We’ll see.

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Some Fools Fool Themselves, I Guess

I’m feeling better this morning. It’s just hard. I love them and I wish I could figure out how to spend time with them in ways that don’t make me feel like I want to hide until the visit is over.

My dad has a friend and he’s constantly talking about how this friend treated his kids so bad and now they’re messes and how you can’t ride someone all the time and expect them to be okay.

And I keep listening to him say these things and I keep waiting for the connection to be made and… nope.

We got the dog to play a few rounds of fetch. I couldn’t tell if he liked it. He seemed to be having an okay time, but after a short while, he took the ball and went in the house.

I feel you, dog.

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Too Much Togetherness

My parents cleaned my bathroom today. Like, scrubbed on hands and knees cleaned. They also vaccuumed. They love to do this shit because, if I complain about it, then I’m a lunatic. Because they’re helping.

Really, they’re going through all my shit and passing judgement on it and me. My house is disgusting. I need to do this and that. Yes, they rearranged my house to suit them, cleaned the bathroom to their standards, and then tried to leave me a list of things to do, as if my job is to take care of their house.

This, though, is my house.

It doesn’t feel like it right now.

And I hate it. I hate that they do this and I hate that I don’t know how to stop them from doing it

I hate that their biggest complaint is that I’m bossy, but they do this shit. I hate that they make me feel so bad about myself without even trying.

I hate and feel guilty about how miserable they make me.

Cemetery Questions

So, I went out to Calvary Cemetery to make sure that some folks were in there who I thought were in there for my big bombing project, and I ran into a priest who was just a joy to talk to about history stuff.

But one of the things we talked about was the old Catholic cemetery and he had it in a slightly different spot than I know Fort Negley thinks it is. He told me a delightful story about what a problem they had getting the Irish Catholics in town to stop burying their dead in the old cemetery illicitly.

But, if the Catholics are right about where the old Catholic cemetery was, then what was where Fort Negley thinks the old Catholic cemetery was?

My wonder…and I’m not sure how to go about figuring this out, since maps of the cemetery are so hard to find (really old maps, I mean) is whether the cemetery at first stretched on both sides of the tracks. The city cemetery, I mean.

Here, I made a map:

City Cemetery

Okay, so the rectangle made by the red and blue lines, the smallest rectangle, is kind of the obvious looking old boundary of the city cemetery. This also matches up with problems the owner of one of the business I know of has had in the upper northwest corner of having gravestones on his property. The yellow circle is very loosely where Fort Negley has thought the Catholic cemetery was based on old maps and an old picture they have that shows tombstones in that area.

The gray circle is where the Catholic priest at Calvary showed me the old Catholic cemetery was. And you can see clearly why they had to get everyone out of there when the land got eminent domained for the railroad. They believe they moved 700 bodies out of the cemetery (though whether they got all the Irish people who were illicitly putting bodies in it, who knows?

So, if the Catholic cemetery was where the gray circle is, roughly, who was where the yellow circle was? Whose gravestones are in that picture?

I have a guess. It’s a guess of pure speculation, and you should not put any faith in it at this point, since it’s just a guess. But if you look above and to the right of the yellow circle, in the city cemetery, you’ll see a big grassy area full of unmarked graves. Those are, by and large, African American graves. Jack Macon, for instance, is in there someplace.

But pre-Civil War Nashville had a small but vibrant community of free people of color. There was some black wealth. Not a ton. But some. There were some black people who could have afforded headstones. Again, not many, but some. Would those headstones have been separated from the grave markers of wealthy whites? Maybe.

Would they have been easily lost due to racist neglect and the needs of the railroad? Yes.

I mean, you can go in the city cemetery and find markers for white people who died in the 1840s and 1850s. But markers for black people with a little money? Again, I’m not talking very many. Maybe even as few as ten or fifteen families, but the photo doesn’t show that many markers, maybe only as many as ten or fifteen families’ worth.

And if that is the old western edge of the black part of the cemetery, is it so hard to believe that’s where they opened the ground and put the black workers from Fort Negley?

Was the old city cemetery originally the size of the red box?

Trivia

I went with S. to see Roxane Gay last night. (I have thoughts but they sit so close to my bones… or possibly my fat… that I’m not ready to put them down in public.) So, my parents took the Butcher and his family out for dinner and somehow they ended up playing trivia. And my parents don’t go to bars, so this was their first experience with it.

They called me up on their way home and, you guys, they were so delighted. They were laughing and bragging about how they came in second and… I don’t know. I just had this thought that there are things in the world that my parents would enjoy and they don’t know it. They don’t even know how to find those things.

And it’s not like my parents are not adventurous. They are. But somehow, sometimes, I feel like there’s this other life they could have had where they would have been a little happier and it’s tantalizingly close.

And sometimes they stumble into parts of it.

And that makes me happy for them.

You Should…

Yesterday I read an article about how women should have fewer children to help the environment. It was written by a feminist. Which means all her previous stuff about women’s rights to bodily autonomy was bullshit.

So, that’s frustrating.

It’s also a numbers problem. The difference between a million and a trillion is staggering. The difference between a thousand of something and a trillion of something is staggering. But at some point, we just perceive those as very large numbers.

Women having “too many” (and is that ever ugly) kids is everyone who is in the ocean right now peeing in the ocean of our environmental problems. Like, it sure seems like it’s problematic, but everything in the ocean pees in the ocean and that’s not what’s ruining the ocean. You peeing in the ocean or not has no effect on the huge atolls of garbage and plastic. The ocean deals fine with pee.

I get that we want there to be individual solutions because we’ve lost faith in collective efforts to change.

But conceding a woman’s right to determine what happens to her body in this one case, even as you argue that it’s wrong in all other cases is just gross and wrong. And forcing women to have fewer children isn’t going to save the environment.

I don’t know. It just really bugs me how quickly bullshit is okay when it’s your side proposing it.

My parents are not packing up the Butcher’s stuff today. Apparently he talked to them about it and made it clear he’d be super pissed off. That did not stop my dad from sitting at dinner divvying up my stuff. He kept insisting that the Butcher come and get half of my dishes because they “need” them. The Butcher’s family has their own dishes.

Maybe this is a weird thought for an opinion columnist to have, but I do wonder if one of the unacknowledged privileges of whiteness is the belief that you should get to boss people around, that it’s fine for you to sit around and think about what people need without consulting with them and then make grand pronouncements you expect to be followed.

I don’t know, really. I also think I get so on edge because I don’t want to be blindsided by nonsense that I then turn everything into too big a deal.

But I’m also glad that the Butcher and I have said out loud to each other on many occassions that this isn’t how we want to be treated or how we want to treat each other.

Red Afghan, Red Afghan

I have made a terrible mistake with this afghan. Not a crocheting error but a philosophical mistake. The middle of this afghan is 54 lacy squares that attach to each other with ten stitches, five on each side of a gap. Which means each side of the square has four ends to tuck.

This square has convinced me of the importance of Join-as-You-Go, which is not a skill I have (yet). I’m not sure how it would have worked on these squares, but my god, it could not have been stupider than this.

Still, it looks good and I love this red so much.

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The World is on Fire

Yesterday, and I can’t find it now, of course, I read a brief paragraph on how Lovecraft’s fiction, even the stuff that doesn’t deal explicitly with race, is bound up in the terror of discovering that you’re not the most important thing in the universe, which is, at heart, a racist terror.

But this is also the thrill of the apocalypse, which we as a nation love, the belief that we are so important that this moment must be unique among all other moments that things cannot possibly go on after us.

I have been trying not to succumb to that kind of thinking, because it it at heart not helpful and untrue.

So, instead, I have been asking myself things like “What does how I’m feeling right now teach me about how people must have felt about X?”

And I think I am, in part, understanding some of the existential terror on the homefront of the Vietnam war–how you can see with your own eyes that something is very, very wrong, but also have to live with the vertigo of so many people trying so hard to insist that, if we all just go along with it and put our faith in institutions and our leaders, everything will be fine. When, obviously, going along with it and having faith in institutions and leaders is getting people killed.

And yet, if we don’t have faith in each other and find ways to work together, what hope do we have?

Hard

A thing I have realized in therapy, which I guess I knew at an intellectual level already, but hadn’t admitted to myself deep down, is that I love my family very dearly–they are the most important people to me–and I don’t trust them.

And that makes spending time with them a source of great anxiety for me because I’m getting and giving all these cues that say “We all love each other and take care of each other and watch out for each other” but only the first part is always true.

Anyway, my parents are coming on Wednesday for the baby shower on Saturday. I’m a bit concerned about what they think they’re going to get up to on Thursday while I’m at work. They haven’t said anything to me but my brother said that they’re planning on making the Butcher’s room a habitable guest room. Which, you know, I get it.

But you don’t go through someone’s stuff without their permission or without even discussing it with him if you want to have a functional relationship with him. And you don’t fail to discuss it with the owner of the room the stuff is in so that she doesn’t have an opportunity to tell you that’s a dumb thing to do and that you shouldn’t.

Old Wounds

Yesterday I went over to the NAACP to see what they might know or have heard about the bombings. I knew it was kind of a long shot, since part of the goal of the bombings was to keep who did it a secret from the people it was done to. But I shared some of what I’d learned and… I don’t know. I felt instantly bad about it.

The head of the NAACP, who everyone told me I should talk to because, if anyone would know anything, he would, grew quieter and quieter. He seemed to withdraw into himself.

I think this story is going to open old wounds and I feel awkward about that. But another thing I think I realized in this meeting is just how much I know about this that most people don’t know. Even people who were alive at the time.

And that’s kind of making me rethink some of how I am presenting the story. I need to make sure that I am very clear about who people are and how they fit into the larger national hate movements. Because people don’t know.

But I am very aware that for me this is interesting and fascinating. But it’s going to be painful for folks.

Paella

The guys came over last night and I made paella for them. They were a little dubious at first. And then they went back for seconds. Huge piles of seconds.

It made me feel like I had powerful magic.

It also made me a little sad because I was planning on leftovers for dinner tonight.

New kitty has taken to pooping in the bathroom (on the floor, not any place useful) when there are fireworks. The litter boxes are clean but she doesn’t seem to care. She must register her displeasure, though there’s nothing I can do about it.

Lifeguard

Last night we went to a friend’s wedding (and, y’all, her dress was adorable and perfect for an outdoor wedding AND IT HAD POCKETS and I died of jealousy and delight at that dress and then was revived by barbecue) and it was full of children.

The child I was sitting next to was trying to decide if dogs have a tooth fairy (no) and she was alarmed that the tooth fairy only ever brought me quarters. The tooth fairy brought her a doll with fairy dust on it, but the fairy dust did to make her fly (the girl, not the doll), which was kind of a bummer.

I tried to argue that it was for the best, because how could her mom come and rescue her if she was flying around and needed help.

Ah, but she thought her mom would be excellent at flying rescues, because she had been a lifeguard.

I don’t think you can argue with that. I can’t, anyway.

In unrelated news, here’s the third square of my afghan:

IMG_2279Each tiny square in the square is only three rounds. It’s so fucking delightful. You get that awesome thing in three fucking rounds.

So, my plan is that this square will fill the middle of the afghan and it will go something like this:

IMG_2282Tiny squares in the middle. A row or two of the flat flowers around that and then the big flowers on the outside. I’m a little nervous about the squares all being different sizes, but I figure this is what lacy joins are for.

Good God

So, you know my theory that, if you want color to stand out, use a simple pattern and if you want the pattern to stand out, don’t go hog-wild with the color.

So, this afghan is for someone who wanted something that reminded her of her awesome flower gardens. And I found this awesome red yarn on sale. I think there are going to be three different squares, but I’ve only worked up two of them. I’m going to work the third one up just as soon as I’m done with this post (it’s from the great big book of cool squares with errors in just about every pattern I’ve tried).

I feel like maybe I should be doing something more productive with my time off than I have been, but god, I feel so much better than I have in weeks that I think I just really needed this.

Anyway, check this out. I think this is going to be the outside square:

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So, a cool, round floral pattern with some 3-D stuff going on in the middle. The red looks a little more orange in this picture than it is in real life.

Then, inside, I think there will be this square:

IMG_2278Which, note, is another round floral pattern, but flat. And then I’ve got a third square picked out that’s also round and flat that I think is going to alternate with this one to give the inside a more lacy feel. But I’m going to need for it to be a similar size to this one, or that’s a no go. So, we’ll see.

This red, though, damn I want to conquer nations for this red.

Still

I think I made the dog and myself a little sick yesterday by walking too far in the heat and humidity. Well, not just the head and the humidity. It’s that there’s no breeze. You sweat but it doesn’t do any good, because there’s nothing to evaporate the water off you.

Today we just took a shorter walk and the dog is still sleeping hard.

I’m making a Batman cowl for my step-nephew, which I might finish up today. I ordered the yarn for my next two projects–another mermaid tail, this one for my niece, and yarn for this what I’m hoping is a really cool afghan. I’m supposed to have an afghan before these, but the recipient wants a colorful scrap afghan and my stash is low.

And then I went and bought the yarn for another afghan, which I want to immediately start making. It’s a kind of complicated flower design and I’m going to do it all in this amazing red I found. I hope it will really be striking.

I got rejected this weekend, too, which kind of ruined my dad for a minute, and then it make me laugh because it was a rejection that took a long, long time. The sure sign of “This made the short list.” And I was going to let that ruin my day after my secret good news? No.

Okay, maybe a little.

The Thing

Welp, something may be happening, which I can’t talk about. At least, outreach has been made and plans have been alluded to and time-frames referenced. And I know these kinds of vague posts are annoying, but this is literally all I’m thinking about and I want to have some signpost, should I ever come back this way, that this was the moment I was like “What? Yes. God, okay, yes.”

Sadly, though, it doesn’t involve Cocktapusses or Jason Statham, so those dreams are still unrealized.

I mean, I really only have one question for Jason Statham: What is the cutest thing you could make scary merely by glaring while holding it? Like, Jason Statham holds a brand new born thirty seconds ago baby and gives you a look that says, “This baby and me are going to fuck you up.” Do you believe it? Or he’s holding your grandma’s hand. Or 500 Beanie Babies. How far do his menacing powers extend?

But even this question is not enough to distract me from my happiness.

Here’s an unrelated thing, this week Radley Balko quoted me in the Washington Post. I was thinking about that this morning as I was walking the dog, how weird it is to find myself here at this late date. I mean, I’m 43. And I’m the same old person I’ve always been, I think. And yet, now, suddenly, sometimes, people say “Well, Betsy Phillips said…” or “Betsy Phillips found…” and that matters, carries weight.

And I don’t really know what to make of that. I mean, I like it and I’m proud of it, don’t get me wrong. But I haven’t done anything except be curious in public for a long time. And, like, I know that’s not nothing, but…

I guess here’s the thing. For a long time, I was not a person for whom this stuff happened. I tried and I tried, but stuff didn’t congeal or it congealed in small ways and then petered out and that was awesome, but I thought that was as good as it got for me. I wasn’t raised to believe that things like this happened to people like us. There was cool shit out there, being done by cool people, but we didn’t get those opportunities. We just did our own thing and tried to live small, interesting lives that somewhat satisfied us.

But something happened. Some barrier was crossed. And I know it because here I am on the other side of it, but I don’t know when or how it happened.

Rabbits

The dog took off across a stranger’s yard today after a rabbit and I was not happy, but I didn’t freak out. The thing I’ve decided about him is that he’s really not motivated by you being mad. I have kind of decided that he thinks my angry voice is a warning. Like “For sure don’t come over here because there are dragons” or “Hide while I go check this thing out.” or “Run away, Sonnyboy! Run away!”

So, if I want him to come back to me, I have to make it seem super awesome. And so far that’s worked. Which is not to say that I don’t worry every time he does something stupid.

I guess, too, that I feel like I’m focusing a lot on the dog lately, because he is unconcerned with any larger issues. The dog will never worry about healthcare. He’s not anxious about whether we can get our shit together.

I’m working on an afghan for my step-niece. I was hoping to have it ready for her birthday, but her birthday was yesterday and I still have to figure out if I can finish it how I want to. Plus, as is my way, I have a ton of ends to tuck.

But at least at this point, it looks like what it is and it is marvelous, so everything from here on out feels like just finishing up.

IMG_2251It’s the most sculptural thing I’ve done, I think. I don’t remember ever thinking about how an afghan would work in three dimensions before.

Weight, Weight, Don’t Tell Me

There’s a window of about 20 lbs where I’ve lived every since my PCOS diagnosis, which I am relieved about because before the diagnosis, I was just gaining and gaining and gaining and having the joy of my doctor acting like I was lying when I told him what I eat.

Anyway, I’m at the lower end of my 20 lb window these days and my trips to the doctors have taken on a weird tone. I get all this praise for “working so hard.” And then when I’m like “Um, no” they seem disappointed. Like, if I’m not going to tell them a story of suffering, they’re not interested in hearing it.

I don’t think they know that. Of course. But it is weird to me how often doctors seem okay with fat if you’re suffering from trying not to be fat.  How much praise they’re ready to heap on you if you have some tale of misery to recount.

Which is not to say that I don’t sometimes make myself miserable over it. I do worry that no one could ever really love this body, myself included. I worry that people are staring or grossed out or whatever. I worry about being confronted by assholes in public.

But when I can quiet those voices, I don’t suffer from being fat. I don’t like it, but I don’t dislike it. I mean, yeah, I wish I were pretty and everyone loved me. But I also like how soft I am and I think my toes are adorable and I like having gigantic boobs.

And I like not suffering. I don’t think there’s any virtue in suffering. And I think it’s a trap to believe that your good life starts when you’re thinner or prettier or I don’t know. Some other thing. This is your life, now, what you make of it. And I don’t believe that my life would be improved by me “working so hard” and suffering.

I mean, I assume people who hardcore diet and exercise do it because ultimately they like it. I don’t think Jason Statham looks that way because there’s virtue in suffering. I think he looks that way because he really likes to look that way and he really enjoys the things he does to look that way. I mean, if his trainer said, “Jason, you can do one hundred pull-ups and have shoulders like a god OR I can kick you in the nuts one hundred times and you can have shoulders like a god” he’s obviously doing the pull-ups, right? Even if the pull-ups kind of suck, there’s the suck of “Yeah, this bit’s not going to be fun” and then there’s the suck of “I am in pain and can’t move and want to die.”

So, it’s fun and he likes challenging himself and he likes how he looks in the end.

I don’t know. I lost the thread once I brought up Jason Statham and started thinking about his shoulders. If he were a cocktapus, you know somehow he’d be glaring at you with his face and each of his eight dicks.

In a fight between The Rock and a cocktapus, who would win? Tell me in the comments below.

Okay, I think I remember what my point was. I would not be a better person if I accepted more suffering into my life. But I am disturbed by how much of an assumption medical professionals have that I would be better off if I were suffering more.

How Far?

Thanks to therapy, the dog and I have been walking to school every morning, even though the hill is steep and scary. When we get back, the dog is exhausted. I feel really proud of that–that I’m able to wear out the dog.

I don’t know if we’ll keep up going that far when the weather turns hot again, but man, when it’s lovely like today? I feel so lucky.

I pissed a dude off yesterday. He called me at work to complain. I don’t know if he was satisfied by the exchange. It didn’t seem like it. You ever talk to someone and where they’re coming from just makes so little sense that you can’t exactly even tell what’s happening in the conversation? I felt like that was happening to both of us.

I do sometimes feel like I have gotten way off the beaten path and not noticed. I will say that.

 

I Communicate Just Fine. I’m a Writer.

I’m at the stage in therapy where the problem is the world being a bag of dicks and not me. I certainly do not need to work on my communication skills. I communicate for a living!

Ha ha ha. I kind of love that my biggest defense mechanism is that the world is wrong.

I finished a very rough draft of my bombing piece and I do have a big hole to fill that’s just going to have to wait on me getting files. It’s also 15,000 words long at this point, so I’m going to have to figure out how to cut it and–sadly–I think that means losing my funny bits.

I also watched the Jason Statham remake of Death Race which I think is the quintessential Jason Statham movie, since it involves driving, fighting, glaring, brief nudity, shirtless pull-ups, glowering, prison, and a baby.

It’s a weird movie, too, though in that it feels like it’s ostensibly made for men. I mean, I think action movies are made mostly for men. And sometimes I can’t decide if I’m really seeing what I think I’m seeing in the movie or if it’s colored by the fact that I watch Jason Statham movies because I want to see him take his clothes off and beat the shit out of some people. But I feel like the movie really invites the viewer–who is ostensibly mostly male–to spend a lot of time looking at Statham and the skeevy guard is obviously enjoying looking at Statham, so the film is modeling that it’s fine to take pleasure in how fucking hot this motherfucker is.

Which is fine with me. I benefit from it. But we live in such a homophobic culture and yet the movies we make for men are often full of “look at this man.”

Here Comes the Rain Again

It feels like it’s been a while since we’ve had any kind of tropical storm blow through, but today we’re starting to see Cindy, who I guess will be here through Saturday?

I will never not be awed by the size of these storms, the fact that something that is still churning in the Gulf reaches me, way up here.

Audience

There’s some usual idiocy in the comments over at the Scene, which they’re trying to handle by making everyone sign in through social media. I don’t think this will curb all abuse, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed that it will cut down on some.

And I was talking about this a little on Twitter, but I wanted to say it here, too, that there’s a gendered dynamic to how women are treated on the internet that is really hard to get at. Sure, there’s been a lot of analysis, but it all just seems to get at portions.

I think the underlying issue is a cultural assumption that women must “earn” attention through availability–usually sexual, but not always. Like, the default is that we don’t pay attention to women. We don’t value their opinions. We don’t find spending time with them just for the sake of spending time with them worthwhile.

So, if women want attention, they have to give us something to make it worth our while to tolerate them.

Since, obviously, I’m not having sex with everyone at Pith, I think the something some of them feel owed is the opportunity to abuse me. Me tolerating the shitty things they say about me is what “earns” me the opportunity to have their attention.

I think this is what’s fundamentally so upsetting to trolls about women’s participation in things. It feels to them unearned because the woman is not paying in some way for the attention doled out to us. So, they will make us pay.

This Dog

Today I chased the dog through three backyards and then, when I couldn’t catch him and I couldn’t even see him, but I heard him rustling in the bushes ahead of me, and I called out one last time, he came from behind me.

Which leads me to wonder who I was chasing?

And also, is the dog secretly faster than I realized? I lost sight of him for just a second, then started following “him” again, but during that time, he and his stunt double must have switched places.

Or else I am in the dog version of The Prestige. Which means that, though there is a dog sleeping at my feet, somewhere out there he also runs free.

Kids

In researching this story, I found a third racist killed by his kid. I don’t know anything about patricide, really, so I don’t know how common it is, but this feels like a group with a lot more of it than most.

I have two main thoughts about it. One that when we don’t deal with social problems like racism, the suffering is society-wide. The people I’m looking at really harmed black people and Jewish people AND they also really harmed their children. Being white didn’t protect their children from them.

Second, I feel like these kids are often harmed a second time because we tend to dismiss the families of racists as also worthless pieces of shit. As if they can’t be anything other than what their fathers were, which lets us ignore the years of suffering and abuse that the kids endured and then treat what they have to do to escape it as kind of a joke.

Me, too. I mean, I laughed when I saw that this dude had died after a fist-fight with his kid.

But it’s not just funny. It’s also really terrible. And you know the 14 words these yahoos love? What future are they securing? I mean, really. When your kids are abused and terrorized because the only way you know how to go through life is as an abuser and a terrorizer, your kids can’t flourish. And removing everyone who’s not like you from the country or the planet isn’t going to make your kids happy and well-adjusted, because it’s not those outsiders ruining them.

The bogeyman is in the house. Has been there all along.

Stuff

Today as the dog was walking back to me after chasing a bunny, a word popped into my head–flourishing. I think he’s flourishing. I know he misses the Butcher–I do, too–but I feel like we’ve developed some kind of new understanding of what it means to live together without him. And we’re doing okay.

I really love this little baby blanket. The border is going to take a while, I think, but I think it’ll be worth it.

And I’ve decided to just lean into the paranoia of the bombing story in my draft, to just let the weirdness be at the center of it.