My mother loves to tell the birth stories of all her children to whoever cares to listen. Oftentimes, I’m in proximity to this tattletaling. I’m somewhere sitting on my bed in my room, reading a novel and praying that the guest in the living room has the common sense to realize they need to leave soon. And I can hear my mother’s boisterous voice, laced with nostalgia, the same emotion that she feels every time she tells these stories.She’d tell stories of how traumatic my older brother’s birth w...

We all know the feeling. The melodramatic moment when you lie down in complete darkness, listening to a playlist of the saddest songs you could find on Spotify or Apple Music, and you contemplate the entirety of your life.

Cheating. Lying. Emotional carnage. Contains morally dubious decisions and an unreliable narrator who might be playing you.

I’ve been accused of many things: heartlessness, seduction, even witchcraft once (Michael’s words, not mine). But never laziness. I take my work very seriously.

Where’s the grim reaper and his skythe?
Come, smight me! let me see the light
I’ve given my widow’s mite.