Listening to my voice through writing is annoying. Don’t get me wrong; I love writing. It’s been something that has held onto my imagination, latched on as if it were a parasite.
It sucks the marrow and bites the sinews connected to a creative part of my existence. The process of putting words onto a screen or paper is an innate part of me. But here it is a new month, and I wish I were someone else as a writer.
I mean to say I’m tired of the person contained within these words.
It all feels the same, like…
If you’re like me, the thought of sitting still, quietly, for a full hour, is almost terrifying.
Not like horror movie scary but dreadful in an I’m-not-getting-anything-done kind of way.
Four months ago, that was my mindset about meditation. Some call it mindfulness. Whatever you choose to call it, doing this exercise for longer than 10 minutes seemed impossible. It felt like a waste of time. And I guilt-tripped myself for even considering it.
Until I started doing it.
A girl was shot to death, in bed, by police, not far from my house.
I’m less than an hour’s drive from Louisville, and yesterday forever changed the Kentucky socio-political landscape yet again.
Let me clue you in on something I’ve heard TWO police officers locally inform me of. They have both, unknowingly, confirmed one another’s account of how they’re taught to use their weapon. Their stories corroborated the “spray and pray” mentality.
This is a simple way of saying fire a lot of ammo and hope it meets its target. They’re not taught to be precise. This is not…
You’re in a hurry.
It’s 7:30 am, and your manager expects you there at 8.
Your commute is a half-hour on a good day with no traffic.
You woke up late again.
Rushing to the kitchen to turn on the oven, throw in two slices of bread with some cashew butter and hemp seed, you manage to stub your right big toe on the doorframe.
You throw on some clothes because there’s no time to shower.
You brush your teeth, your hair.
There’s absolutely no time to tie your shoes.
You’ll tuck your shirt in when you get there.
Forget the blazer.
You grab your keys and backpack…
To vote or not? Every election, this becomes a more challenging question to answer. Four years have passed since Donald Trump was elected as president. What four years it has been.
Let me be clear: I’m not a Trump supporter.
Let me be more precise: I’m not a political supporter of any kind.
In laymen’s terms, I don’t like any of them. I don’t trust any politician. It’s not that I’m against progress; we need it as a nation and world. …
Hi, there. Oh, you’re a Trumper? Shut up, please. You stand for racism, bigotry, misogyny, and don’t forget over-the-top nationalism mixed with diplomatic bullying. Is that even a coined phrase? How would you know? You support Donald Trump.
How did he get into office? Well, according to the widely-accepted view, he was voted in by the American people. What does that say about all of us in America, honestly? Obviously, you didn’t vote for him. I didn’t either.
Was he the lesser of two evils in 2016 when pitted against Hilary Clinton? There are a lot of questions here that…
Days before being fired from a 12-year career, I was crafting plans to quit the same place in six months. Sometimes life has a way of hurrying you forward. This is that story.
After spending 8 life-changing days in Iceland, I returned to America 33 years old and full of excitement. There was a new resolve. I would quit my job and make something of my passion and talents.
The car business had swallowed one-third of my life by then, and I’d had enough. Its politics, the mundane, repetitive photography of Chrysler vehicles, and long hours had taken a significant…
We sat across from one another, embattled. Between us lay a sheet of paper with some bright green numbers scribbled quickly onto it. It was a duel of powers, a war of value versus price. One wrong word and this Tower of Babel would rain down bricks, destroying the deal.
“$29,500 is too much,” a sturdy man in dusty overalls said plainly, “Too much.” He confirmed again, shaking his head.
“Why do you say that?” I retorted, attempting to dig deeper into his thought process to determine what the real objection was. Maybe he didn’t truly like the color, or…