I love intense Facebook conversations, until they turn nasty. Then, my friends, I become an unhappy addict.
Food, you are sublime, terrifying, and filled with struggle. I love you, but why must you cause such guilt and fear?
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.
What will you do with all of this outrageous beauty?
I had slammed a door on the purest part of my soul. And for what? Like a baby crying out for its mother, I had denied its outstretched arms, turned the key, and plugged my ears to the cries.
The group I imagined was splendid. But since when is something that seems wondrous actually wondrous and not, you know, a cult, or whatever?
My outsider status was hard-won. Earned with my own blood.
I've long bought into the idea of artists inspired by pain. But this myth is both dangerous and inaccurate. Honest, authentic creation must stem from a peaceful mind.
