5 year old, giving me a hug: “I love you, dad. You’re such a great dad.”
Me: “Aww, thank you baby. You’re a great kid, too.”
5 yo: “I just smelled the way you would taste if I were to eat you.”
Me: “O…kay…”
5 year old, giving me a hug: “I love you, dad. You’re such a great dad.”
Me: “Aww, thank you baby. You’re a great kid, too.”
5 yo: “I just smelled the way you would taste if I were to eat you.”
Me: “O…kay…”
Filed under Microblogging, My Life
I’ve had this hat for a long time now. My sister made it for me! As you can imagine, it gets lots of compliments.

Filed under Microblogging, Selfies
If you play with fire, sooner or later you’re going to get burned. The moral: stay away from fire.
When you light a fire, you can get burned. The moral: be careful with fire.
While cooking with fire, sometimes you get burned. The moral: some pain is unavoidable.
Some things burned by fire get cooked. The moral: not all destruction is bad.
Stop fire from spreading, feed it, it keeps you warm. Moral: some dangers can be tamed.
Pretty. Warm. Too much warmth is pain. Too much beauty spreads, kills. Learn: pleasant and safe are not the same.
…What is that?
Hot, bright, filled with color, dancing and alive, angry and lifeless, consuming and alluring and terrifying and pure. What is it?
Beautiful. What is it?
What is this?
Filed under Poetry
Remember how a few days ago I mentioned being angsty? Yeeeaaaahhh, maybe not the best time to finally look into this Billie Eilish person I’ve been hearing so much about. Or maybe it was exactly the right time? I dunno.
Anyway. Whew! She’s good.
Filed under Microblogging, My Life
My daughter has an imaginary friend named “Fighter.” (He’s the pilot for all her favorite cars and Legos and so on.)
Fighter has a sister named “I Forgot.” Yes, that is her actual name. I checked.
Maybe she plays baseball?
Filed under Microblogging, My Life
Lately I’ve had a hard time writing anything other than awful, angsty poetry (don’t ask). It’s like going through high school all over again, except now with kids and debt.
It’s also really eating into the buffer I built up from taking nine days to post a 1,200- word short story I’d already written. I wonder if there’s anything else salvageable on my DeviantArt account…
Filed under Microblogging, My Life
Some of my favorite tweets weren’t my tweets at all, they were conversations between me and my best friend. We were both on Google Buzz–I think we might have been the only ones–so we were able to comment on each other’s posts privately. Here’s a few of our briefer exchanges:
Me: “Every writer is a frustrated actor who recites his lines in the hidden auditorium of his skull.” -Rod Serling
BFF: But the acoustics are amazing!
Me: So are the sets!
The casting is good too, but the scripts are usually just embarrassing.
Me: Naaails to the left, duct taaape to the right–here I am, stuck in the middle with gluuue~
BFF: You’re describing how I mounted my computer monitor to the wall
To this day I’m not 100% sure he was joking.
Me: If mathematics is the study of pure logic and abstraction, then philosophy is the mathematics of language.
BFF: ?
Me: Could you please be more specific
BFF: ??!
…I have no idea what I was saying, either.
BFF: Anytime I say anything worth quoting, you should attribute it to Mark Twain instead.
Me: -Mark Twain
Like any good hacker, when Mr. Twain learns a new system his first instinct is to try to break it. Sometimes I call him the “anti-mnemonic” because this instinct kicks in without fail any time I’m trying to remember something (No, no, no, it’s “righty light-y, lefty heft-y!”), but he’s expressed the urge in other contexts, too. Such as, for example, lame jokes on Twitter:
Me: I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is, there isn’t really any bad news.
BFF: …the bad news is, I was lying about there not really being any bad news.
The other bad news is, I’ve got one more for you. Don’t worry, I’ve saved the most self-indulgent best for last, complete with commentary:
Guess what? Chicken butt.
Ah yes, a classic. But wait, it gets “better!”
Guess why? Chicken pie.
Uh oh. I sense sleep deprivation…
Guess when? Chicken pen.
All right, I think we get it now.
Guess where? Chicken hair.
*sigh*
Guess who? Chicken poo.
I’m surprised I held out that long before resorting to poop, honestly.
Me: Guess how? Chicken cow.
BFF: You are such a menace on Twitter!
-Mark Twain
It’s a bumper sticker I see now and then. Funny, right? Ha ha, let’s all laugh at the idea that your “identity” can change what’s under the hood.
Only…what if what’s under the hood actually was a Prius engine? Would it be such a stretch then to say your truck ought to be treated like one? That you should be entitled to the same tax breaks and emissions exemptions and parking privileges as any other hybrid?
You might be thinking, “Sure, but people aren’t cars–you can’t just swap parts between them the way you could an engine or suspension!” And it’s true, people aren’t cars: men and women are much more similar to each other than trucks and cars. Unlike them, we aren’t designed and built from the top-down, we’re grown from the bottom-up. We all start from the same two cells, and we all spend the first few days and weeks of our lives looking pretty much the same. Even our genitals are all identical at first! In fact, there are a number of ways male and female “parts” can get mixed up at all stages of development.
Some “mix-ups” are so small as to be barely noticeable: a woman with unusually high testosterone levels or muscle tone, or a man with wider-than-average hips. Others are harder or impossible to ignore: a woman with facial hair, a man with breasts.
Even the venerated “sex chromosomes” are not definitive: there are XY people who can conceive and give birth, and XX people with penises and functional sperm. Not to mention all the other possible karyotypes such as XXY, Xo, XYY, and more.
Given everything that can get “mixed-up” and all the different ways in which a person might not fit the “male” or “female” archetypes, is it really that much of a stretch to suppose that a person might be born with a typically male body, but a female mind? (Or vice versa?)
There is one other important way that cars and people are different: if you claimed that your truck had a Prius engine, we could open the hood and check. But, for better and worse, we can’t simply pop open the hood of someone’s mind and see what’s in there. With rare and limited exceptions, when someone makes a claim about their own mind, we have no ethical choice but to take their word for it.
Identity is complex. Not all of it is determined by biology; there are parts of your identity that you can choose. But being trans, like being gay, doesn’t seem to be one of them. Without exception, every trans person I’ve heard talk about it has described realizing they were trans as a discovery, not a decision: looking back on their past and seeing that they had, in fact, been trans the whole time.
If you’d owned a truck for years that was underpowered but strangely quiet and fuel-efficient, and one day you opened the hood for the first time and discovered it had a hybrid engine… Well, maybe that bumper sticker wouldn’t seem like such a joke anymore.
Filed under Essays