“Who goes to Florida in July?” my friend Beavis texted, as mockingly as one can via text.
“It’s just for these events,” I replied. “It’s not like a long vacation or anything.”
“Who goes to Florida in July?” my friend Beavis texted, as mockingly as one can via text.
“It’s just for these events,” I replied. “It’s not like a long vacation or anything.”
Tim loved the work I shared with him and told me that I should “immediately quit (my) job and become a dishwasher.”
The ticket to the middle class my diploma-only Dads had doesn’t exist in the way it once did, not in my ore-dusted hilltop community, in Payne-Phalen, or here in Goldenrod.
The what ifs come fast and furious at night, when my perimenopausal body and brain refuse to shut down.
My professional purposes now all center around making people feel good.