It was only my second of three days in England, and here I was, after having frantically raced to the bathroom, aggressively puking into my friend’s toilet.
Home is a base, a starting point, a fixture to which I latch a tether, however temporarily. Like a climber reaching for the next anchor point, I’m always searching for somewhere new to fasten a hold.
No matter how many books read, how many websites visited, how many personal accounts accumulated, when it comes down to make the actual move, my arms remain outstretched in a darkened room.
In my lowest times, I've always turned to music. It lifts me up, consoles me, gives me perspective, and it often articulates my emotions better than I can. On at least one occasion, it has literally saved my life.
The institution of marriage is simultaneously a business arrangement and a romantic bond, a facilitator of families and a symbolic gesture. In all its iterations, though, marriage remains a blind leap into the future, the unknown.
It's amazing to think, if not for my sixth grade teacher, I might be an engineer instead of a writer.
It was an ugly, brown polyester gas station attendant’s jacket, made all the more unsightly by large rips, frayed edges, and a phalanx of safety pins. I thought it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen.
Sometimes, factotums are easily bored, always looking for something new to hold their attention. Just as likely, they're simply bad at everything and stumble from one failure to the next. And then there are the wanderers.