But aliens? There are TV shows about them. There are books and movies and more. The media indoctrinates you to them until people are so desensitized they don’t flinch at seeing aliens on TV or having their children buy plastic versions for a quarter.

His kisses were so hungry and male, which isn’t bad. Every kiss said he could never have enough, but he wasn’t going to stop trying. They were so hormonal. I wanted his sugar roughness. Girl’s kisses are deliberate and polished. When she kisses me – when I kiss her – she doesn’t want me. She has me and knows it.

If you can’t feel the touch of the gods on your own, it greatly behooves you to work on that before some lecher tells you his touch is just as good.

There weren’t always happy endings and children would do well to know that vile things could happen to them, that witches and wolves were desperate to steal them should they be disobedient or foolish or simply unlucky.

My life edges out any sense of sanity I can have, and I come to realize there won’t be a point where things can be ordinary again, or as ordinary as I would have them.

Any divinity that can’t see me as a good witch in street clothes has no business hanging up a shingle as a god.

Isn’t watching sacred potential kill itself as good a punishment as eternal fire?

Cliches work by appealing to the collective unconscious. They are the Pachbel’s Canon in D of writing, something familiar the talented can riff off to create a distinct work.

You know about witches, wizards. You can envision dragons, even if you presently think you are above believing in them. You doubt magic, but you have a word for it. Isn’t that a strangeness that wears at you? All these things that you know all about, but you think you are above. Did you used to be able to shape the spell children use to find lost things in the grass? Did you always know to look at the sky, at stars, when you make your wishes? Who taught you the things your soul has always known?

The aftertaste of New Year’s Eve parties wears on me for the same reason I am not much for resolutions. Dusting off a stepper because we switched out our calendar is pointless. After all, society also conditions that most will whiff their resolutions by January 3rd, at which point one is to abandon the resolutions utterly and feel guilty as one devours a box of Christmas chocolates.