I Love To Write, So It Rarely

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.

Whatever She Saw Beyond The Camera Lens, Beyond The Photographer, Beyond Anything In The Known World Probably - Wasn't Fit To Be Seen.

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.

What Molds Us Is What Maims Us.

I Normally Can't Stand Vice-free People. They Conflate A Narcissistic Instinct For Self-preservation With Moral Superiority. Plus, They Suck The Life Right Out Of A Party.