Free Falling


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Like all things I blame on the dog, it was my fault: I taught puppy-her never to go downstairs at night. Eight years later, it’s less cute that she needs someone to watch her pee at 1:00 am.

Faint light bled up the stairs.

Lucky me, I thought, The Boy is on the computer.

With him downstairs, all I had to do was shoo the dog down. He could let her out. One problem: she knew I wasn’t downstairs. I swung my leg over the lip of the step, faking her out.

I blame the dog, I told the doctor.

Microprose isn’t just for micro weeks. This week Christine double-dog-dared me to write about a fall in 100 words. I made it… exactly.


Hurt people hurt people


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WARNING: TROPES AHEAD. And spoilers for things that happened years ago in media you probably didn’t care about.

I’m a Batfan from way back. I have the toys, the comics, the posters, the shirts, including the Gotham Rogues limited edition hoodie that Underarmour was selling. ALL OF IT. If you want me to buy something, just stick a fucking bat on it and take my money. I will fight you if you think Tony Stark is the superior billionaire superhero. Continue reading

The F Bomb


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Nan was the first person I heard say “fuck” in a professional capacity, and I don’t think I’ve been as impressed by the word since, except maybe the first day of Contracts when Professor Leslie slid into the room in an outfit far too California-subtextually-gay for the Midwest and screamed it at the top of his lungs before saying in a much calmer voice “I just got tenure, I can say whatever I want now.” Continue reading

This is true.


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Nonfiction usually requires a windup. Some sort of stretching before it hits the track. A metaphor. Links, to other sources more reliable than myself. For once, I’m (almost) going to skip that. If you need resources, you are already on the internet. I hope that you’ll find the one that convinces you this is true. Or you could just believe me; I’m usually pretty good at being right.

You are not your productivity.

Another excerpt from that memoir I’m not going to write


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Katie the Cop was, in the 1980’s, chiefly (this is a pun) notable for being the one-woman police force of our small town in Oregon at a time when women were not cops and certainly did not hold small-town office. Sure, the first and second waves of feminism had swept through the country, but our little town was pretty high up in the hills and if there was a feminism tsunami warning, we would have been an evacuation zone.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t the rumors that you could get out of a speeding ticket by buying the Avon (the official report says it was Mary Kay but they’re wrong) she kept in the trunk of the town’s single police car that finally brought Katie down.

No, it was the exorcisms. Continue reading