July 30, 2025 · 8:32 am

SECRET CRUSH

We’ve been cleaning out our old storage unit lately, which means I’ve been rediscovering a lot of memorabilia and souvenirs (and baby clothes, and broken toys, and expired toiletries, and homework assignments from 20 years ago, and literal garbage…)

As you can imagine, there have been a few nostalgia bombs.

One of the treasures I uncovered is from high school, when I had a positively brobdingnagian crush that I was too much of a weenie to do anything about. For some reason, it was very important to me that no one ever find out who my SECRET CRUSH was–or, indeed, that I had a SECRET CRUSH at all. I wouldn’t even write their name down!

Well, except for one time. You see, I had this idea that since I couldn’t talk to them (I mean literally: I had trouble saying a single word to them even though we had all the same friends), I would confess my feelings in a letter.

Now, if you’re thinking that I wrote my SECRET CRUSH a mash note with the intent of doing something normal like, I don’t know, giving it to them–well, you better buckle up, ’cause the weenie train hasn’t even left the station.

Actually giving my crush the letter? Way too scary. I just thought it would be nice to have it written out, so I would know what I would write if I was brave enough. So I wrote the letter and then just kept it in my journal…right?

Ha!

You see, the thought of actually writing the letter I would hypothetically give to my crush if I was brave enough…was still too scary. So instead, I drew a sketch of the letter.

That’s right, folks: I drew a picture of a hypothetical love letter. It’s now hypothetical twice.

(Hold your applause, please: we’re just coming to the best part!)

What did the letter say, you ask? BEHOLD:

(It’s a deadname. Get it???)

I…I can’t, you guys. I’m dying. This is so sad it’s hilarious. I drew a sketch of the hypothetical love letter I would write if I was brave enough to write the letter I would hypothetically give to my crush if I was brave enough to give it to them, and in that sketch…the letter’s blank. I couldn’t even imagine imagining what I would imagine saying to them!

Well, okay, it wasn’t entirely blank: I did put their name on it. I was brave enough to do that much, at least!

…I just had to then immediately tear the page out of my journal, fold it up, put it in a SECRET box, and stash the SECRET box in a SECRET hiding place in my room, so that no one would ever, ever find out about my SUPER SECRET CRUSH.

Especially my crush.

(We ended up married, by the way. I did get there eventually!)

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July 29, 2025 · 8:43 am

Riddle Me This

If AI is so great at language processing now, how come autocorrect is still so ducking shorty?

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July 28, 2025 · 8:52 am

is

It’s the voice of the child who calls the emperor naked,
Of course.

But it’s the voice of the child who calls clouds pretty,
And dead birds sad,
As well.

It’s the patron of the woman catching a trickle of water in her open mouth
As she dies of thirst,
And of the woman who swipes right.

It’s the mountain climber’s, too–
At least, until falling–
And the man who dreams of flying begs its favor.

But the first man to fly knows
It is deaf to prayer,
And blind to need.

The preacher at the pulpit calls it her teacher,
But the sole pupil hearing its lesson is the old man in the back,
Doubting his faith.

The carpenter, when they build, is its employer
Though it never earns a dime.

The gambler has looked in its eyes a thousand times,
Courted it,
Cursed it,
Worshipped it,
Yet doesn’t recognize its face.

The greedy may scorn and disown it,
And the demagogue mask it,
Contort it,
Flay it and stuff straw into the empty skin
(Then bow and scrape to the puppet while condemning its bloody remains for a monster),
Yet all the wealth and power they covet is granted
Solely at its pleasure.

How do you know it?

You say, perhaps:
    Like a lover knows their mate
Or
    Like your secrets know your friend
Or even
    Like a captive knows her jailor

No, that’s wrong:

You know it like a mill knows the river,
Like a kite knows the wind,
Like roots know soil.

What is it?

Yes, that’s right: what is it?

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July 26, 2025 · 8:52 am

BwEoTrTsEeR

I’m still not very good at poetry, but I feel like I’ve been improving a lot recently!

Or at least I did, before I started reading Andrea Gibson. Now I feel like everything I’ve ever written, poetry or otherwise, is literal garbage. The garbage-est kind of garbage. Like, toilet paper.

Gently used toilet paper.

But…I’m still proud of the progress I’m making? If anything, I’m more motivated than ever to improve. Somehow, seeing a creator that far above my level is discouraging and inspiring at the same time.

It’s like looking across a massive canyon, a chasm that separates my ability from theirs. Surveying it, I can’t pretend perfectionism any more; every word I put onto the page is another reminder of my failure. But the flip side of seeing that gap–remembering it’s there–is that I also know it can be crossed. Andrea themself was on this side, once; they stood where I stand. If they made the journey, maybe I can too.

And of course, there are other reasons why it’s healthy to be reminded that you’re always making garbage.

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July 25, 2025 · 7:41 am

Attachmentality

When I was little, my best friend was a boy named Jack. We were thick as thieves from 1st grade all the way through 5th, when he transferred to a different school. I haven’t seen or spoken with him since then–almost 30 years–but if I ran into him in the grocery store tomorrow my first impulse would be to give him a big, warm hug.

It recently occured to me that this probably isn’t normal.

I get very attached to the people I like. If I really like someone, I don’t stop feeling close just because we’ve gone a measly little decade or three without speaking–if we get in touch again, I go right back to treating them like a best friend.

Understandably, this can be off-putting to people who no longer feel the same way!

It’s incredible how many background variables our minds take for granted. If it had ever consciously occured to me to question this assumption, I would have discarded it immediately. But because I never noticed the assumption, I continued to take it as given that people I was still attached to would have some attachment to me.

It also helps explain why I struggle with casual relationships with people like coworkers, neighbors, and acquaintances: it’s hard for me to remain engaged and friendly without a strong emotional connection, but building that connection takes a lot of work and can only be done with certain people. I used to be better at this–probably because I had more energy to devote to maintaining the appearance of an emotional connection, even when I didn’t really feel one.* Or perhaps I was better at building small, temporary connections that weren’t as big an investment. Or maybe both! After all, when it comes to certain mental traits (like confidence or friendliness), sometimes “fake it till you make it” is really just another way of saying “practice makes perfect” or “exercise makes you stronger.”

I guess one takeaway for me is that I’m out of practice at being friendly. Better start exercising!

*Not that I didn’t care about the people I was talking to! I care a lot about everybody! In a way, that’s kind of the problem!

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July 24, 2025 · 8:13 am

Please, Please, PLEASE Don’t Do This

Elon Musk announces Grok AI's new "Companions" feature on Twitter. Threads users davidleavitt and kevin_michael_murphy_jr mock the feature and Elon, calling him "lonely."

Please don’t use “lonely” to mock and insult people. No, not even N*zis. Companionship is a fundamental human need, right along with food, water, shelter, and safety. When people steryotype “loneliness” as a defining feature of disgusting incels, they alienate potential allies and push vulnerable people who are genuinely suffering into the arms of a toxic culture that exploits their suffering to perpetuate misogyny, classism, and white supremacy.

“Lonely” is not a character flaw and shouldn’t be used as an insult. If you wouldn’t use “autistic” or “triggered” or “sexless” or “depressed” as an insult, don’t use “lonely” as one either. None of those things make a person good or bad!

“N*zi,” on the other hand, is a character flaw. That one’s a great insult! “Incel” is pretty good, too! Just stick with those, please!

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July 23, 2025 · 8:43 am

Weird Scritches, But Ok

Our pug is not very picky about how he gets attention…

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July 22, 2025 · 8:13 am

Should’ve Called It Attention Disobedience Disorder

Me: “Ugh, [trope X] is so [gross/overdone/boring] in [genre Y]. They just fit together so perfectly to make a bad story–like soul mates, but for awfulness instead of love. It’s probably impossible to put them together and have something good come out.”

My hyperfocus: “Hold my beer.”

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July 21, 2025 · 8:30 am

Wish I Was Here

Trike gets to sleep in on the weekends and I have to admit, I get pretty jealous.

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July 19, 2025 · 7:09 am

Snow Koan

The master spoke: “It is said the sentence ‘snow is white’ is true, if and only if snow is white. This we have already discussed. But it is a separate question whether snow is, in fact, white. So what color is snow?”

The student, having re-learned the child’s art of giving simple answers to simple questions, replied: “White, of course!”

The master smiled. “Oh? And are you certain of that belief?”

“As you’ve taught me, I cannot be absolutely certain of anything,” said the student. “But I am humanly certain, yes.”

“And if I say that snow is not white?” inquired the master.

“Holding to true beliefs in the face of authority is an old lesson, master. My answer is unchanged.”

“Well and good,” said the master. “But what if I offered more than mere authority?  What if I showed you that snow is not white?”

This question did not seem simple, so the student paused to think before answering.

“If you could actually do that,” they replied, “I would be very interested. But I do not expect it to happen.”

Wordlessly, the master rose and walked outside, beckoning the student to follow. It was winter, and it just so happened that a fresh layer of snow had covered the ground the night before. The master pointed to a patch of snow down the hill, upon which some animal had recently urinated. “Snow is yellow,” the master said, for the snow there was indeed yellow.

The student began to speak, but the master held up a hand to silence them, then led them to a snow fort some of the younger adepts had built that morning.  The two of them stuck their heads inside, and the master said, “Snow is blue,” for the light shining through the walls was, in fact, a muted blue.

Finally, the master pulled a microscope from their pocket and, using a chilled pair of tweezers, placed a single perfect snowflake under the lens, beckoning the student to look. The student did so and beheld a fantastic crystal, transparent yet scintillating with rainbow. The master said, “Snow is all colors and no color,” and surely that was the only description that properly fit.

“Now you have seen,” said the master, “So I ask you again, what color is snow?”

The student, feeling rather stupid, hesitated. They began: “Well…it depends on how you see it, I suppose…or where you see it…I mean, the context–” but they were interrupted by a big, white, wet, and very cold snowball to the face, which the master had been concealing.

In that moment, the student was enlightened.

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