My grandmother is quite sick. She had some surgery to return circulation to her leg and has been in ICU ever since. If you feel up to it, please do any of the following: think of her, pray for her, hope for her, cross your fingers for her. Thanks ( Read more... )

I have written often about not being able to find a serious job. My adventures in bookselling, office work and child care have never been real or adult ways of money making ( Read more... )

I have a severe sleep disorder. Disorder meaning I am tired at four in the afternoon and then not again for the rest of the day ( Read more... )

I have abandoned my trailer home in Peabody to live in Brighton with some girls and work at the tiniest Barnes and Noble of all time. My roommates include the ever-awesome Kate Christian, everyone’s favorite homemaking lesbian Bethany and Jen who I do not see very often due to her frequent trips to Aruba and her many hours spent trolley ticket ( Read more... )

The past week has been more or less a dream world. Give or take a messed up foot and a half an illness ( Read more... )

The fact that I live on the train has caused me to analyze the lives of street performers. Street performers? Can you even call them that? They aren't actually on the street. They have seven or eight layers of concrete over their heads. Regardless, let's discuss the so-and-sos who band on their tambourines in front of the blue line at 8:30 a.m. ( Read more... )

On Easter Sunday, the day of the rising of the Lord, I participated in several athletic competitions against middle aged men. I lost a sprinting race to my Uncle Bob. I would be ashamed of this if Uncle Bob did not spend the rest of the day limping. I've decided this makes me the winner as I did hardly any limping at all ( Read more... )

I've written a story for fiction class containing seven dead animals spanning five species. This piece has activated a bizarre series of conversations ( Read more... )

All college kids have spring break. Some go to tropical islands to tan and drink seven gallons of rum. Other kids work three different jobs and read books on the Holocaust. I'm other kids ( Read more... )

I've been working like it's my job. "It is your job!" you're thinking, but not if they don't pay you. I'm also not sure it classifies as work if your bosses only show up once a week and when they do they tell you to take as many books as you want and discuss emo bands with you. I swear, I am incapable of finding one grown-up or professional ( Read more... )