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sabbath
If that’s not January, I don’t know what is. (I have an ex who described January as a “month full of Mondays.” He wasn’t wrong.) The original post waxed poetic about the melancholy of January, about how even though I don’t hate this month the same way I did as a child, that I can still carry some malaise. But here we are. A fresh start. Even when I didn’t want one.


I’m not going to bury the lede:
“Normal” people 100 percent can write a memoir.
If you want to write a memoir, then you can write a memoir.