Your Home Is That Thing

I Felt Like I Was Some Kind Of Primitive Spring-loaded Machine, Placed Under Far More Tension Than It Had Ever Been Built To Sustain, About To Blast Apart At Great Danger To Anyone Standing Nearby. I Imagined My Body Parts Flying Off My Torso In Order To Escape The Volcanic Core Of Unhappiness That Had Become: Me.

Parla Come Mangi' --it Is A Common Way To Say 'be Simple', 'don't Try To Be Rhetorical' Literaly: 'speak The Way You Eat

I Spent A Week Living As A Man. Which Was Actually, I'm Sorry To Say, Embarrassingly Easy For Me To Do.

Astonishingly, At Some Point, A Sputtering Torch Was Thrust Into Her Hands. Alma Did Not See Who Gave It To Her. She Had Never Before Been Entrusted With Fire. The Torch Spit Sparks And Sent Chunks Of Flaming Tar Spinning Into The Air Behind Her As She Bolted Across The Cosmos-the Only Body In The Heavens Who Was Not Held To A Strict Elliptical Path. Nobody Stopped Her. She Was A Comet. She Did Not Know That She Was Not Flying.

We Gallop Through Our Lives Like Circus Performers Balancing On Two Speeding Side-by-side Horses--one Foot Is On The Horse Called "fate," The Other On The Horse Called "free Will." And The Question You Have To Ask Every Day Is--which Horse Is Which? Which Horse Do I Need To Stop Worrying About Because It's Not Under My Control, And Which Do I Need To Steer With Concentrated Effort?