I Love To Write, So

My Daughter Squealed Again And Both Bubba And I Winced. It’s Not An Attractive Sound, That. It’s High-pitched And It Enters Your Ear Canals Like Hot Glass. No Matter How Much I Love My Daughter, I Will Never Love Her Squealing. Or Maybe I Will. Maybe I Do. Driving Down 93, I Realized Once And For All, That I Love The Things That Chafe. The Things That Fill Me With Stress So Total I Can’t Remember When A Block Of It Didn’t Rest On Top Of My Heart. I Love What, If Broken, Can’t Be Repaired. What, If Lost Can’t Be Replaced. I Love My Burdens.

That's The Thing About Being A Victim; You Start To Think It'll Happen To You On A Regular Basis. It's Living With The Reality Of Your Own Vulnerability, And It Sucks.

I Have A Lot Of Rage About Things That Didn't Happen To Me, Tied Up With Watching An Immigrant, Working-class Father Struggle To Make His Way Through The World - And Seeing How Society Was Modeled To Keep Him In His Place.

I Found That I Could Write Two Kinds Of Short Stories: I Could Write Very Absurd, Kind Of Surrealistic, Funny Stories; Or I Could Write Very Dark, Realistic - Hyper-realistic - Stories. I Was Never Happy With That, Because I Couldn't Meld The Two.

But I Often Think We Talk Way Too Much In This Society, That We Consider Verbalization A Panacea That It Very Often Is Not, And That We Turn A Blind Eye To The Sort Of Morbid Self-absorption That Becomes A Predictable By-product Of It.