I know she hurt you, but I’m not her.
I never will be. Never have been.
It’s tough sometimes, how you confuse us. How you assume that when I’m quiet and sad that it’s because I’m passive-aggressively seething. That I’m going to trick you or trap you.
I know that’s what she did. » Read more
I grew up in a strict authoritarian household where I had very little freedom. It was a house in which you had to ask permission to have a glass of water — because after all, someone had to wash it later.
A promise to be the person who washed the glass wasn’t good enough. » Read more
It’s Sunday morning. I’m wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt I don’t care about, and a head wrap that holds my hair out of my face. It’s not glamorous, but it’s functional. I’m dressed that way because I’ve been cleaning. Nothing major but the kind of light cleaning that doesn’t wait for a weekday to be done. » Read more
“Fine! He is being passive aggressive with me, and it’s gonna backfire; I’m gonna be active friendly.”
There’s never a good time to write about passive-aggression. Because no matter what is (or isn’t) going on in your life, someone will read into whatever you write about it. » Read more
It’s been decades, but I still vividly remember my old elementary school. It was a brick building. Standing outside at recess, I’d often stare at those walls, fascinated by the flaws in the blocks, the cracks and places where they were uneven. I was generally a talkative kid and often very social but occasionally I’d get overwhelmed. » Read more