A few days ago, for instance, there was a lightning bolt along the left side of my vision. Not metaphorically. I mean an honest-to-goodness jagged streak of light, as though Zeus had taken a small personal interest in my optic nerve.

We’ve been trying to decide what to do about Valentine’s Day.

It was a small wedding. They had both been married before and didn’t see any reason to make a big affair of it. Family and a few close friends. Maybe fifty people, including children. They asked me to do a reading at the ceremony, which was quite an honor.

I don’t know what, precisely, Milk of Magnesia is made of, but I’m fairly certain it was discovered after someone dropped a pebble into a volcano and said, “Ah yes, this will definitely rearrange the internal architecture of a human being.”

Then I thought about other things in life we wish we could tell our younger selves.  I can see 30-year-old me so clearly — busy, determined, and already harder on herself than anyone else would ever dare to be. If I could sit with her for just a minute, long enough for a cup of coffee and a deep breath, here’s what I’d want her to hear.

Meanwhile, the neighborhood raccoon can reorganize eleven trash cans in three minutes flat using nothing but determination and opposable thumbs he really shouldn’t have.

Yes, we still have two wonderful dogs, but the emptiness is there — the holes in my psyche that need to be filled. I feel like my pet road is full of potholes right now.

I’m not asking for a bespoke culinary experience or a deviation that requires staff consultation. I simply want the same burger everyone else is ordering—prepared the same way—minus the bread.

And they’ve got me pegged, too. You know how algorithms work: you click on one thing, and suddenly there are eighty-seven versions of it chasing you across the internet, day and night.

When was the last time you had to leave your house to... take care of business? Not while camping, mind you. I mean, real life. Monday-morning, neighbors-can-see-you life. Exactly.

Jeremy’s back in a mental health hospital. Again. I’ve lost count of how many times this has happened since his first break from reality—the month before he turned 21. He’s 38 now. It feels like a never-ending struggle.

We’ve forgotten how to talk — really talk. We whisper, we posture, we translate our words mid-sentence for fear of offending someone who isn’t even in the room. But if we can’t even say what is, how are we supposed to talk about what could be better?

But today, Breeze had me all to herself. There was no need for possessiveness, no vying for position. Benny was busy… pouting. You see, I had the unmitigated gall to give him a bath.

But when I checked the moisturizers, they had separated. The skincare equivalent of a divorce.