I should think a dead language would be rather boring, sociallyspeaking.

Home. The word circled comfortably in my mouth like bubble gum, swished around sweetly soft and satisfying. Home. Try saying it aloud to yourself. Home. Isn’t it like taking a bite of something lovely? If only we could eat words.

Spanish—how shall I say this?—is likePortuguese spoken with a speech impediment.

True, beneath the human façade, I was an interloper, an alien whose ship had crashed beyond hope of repair in the backwoods of Southern Appalachia—but at least I’d learned to walk and talk enough like the locals to be rejected as one of their own.

I wondered about my inner child. In fact, I was troubled. Did I even have an inner child, I asked myself, given that, in essence, I’d just been born?

I knew I was in deep shit. I didn’t know how deep—just that I still hadn’t touched bottom.

disclosure: (n.) when they finally tell us everything and nothing changes.

The simple act of sitting here sipping this cappuccino is its own testament to my commitment to living the writer’s life. Which is to say: doing nothing but doing it exceedingly well.

bathroom: (n.) where Americans go to argue about gender while the country goes down the toilet.