Tolerance is not enough: a letter to my former students

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Dear former students,

There’s quite a lot I didn’t teach you.

You knew my rules about respect. You knew not to use the word “gay” to indicate displeasure in my classroom. (You even knew not to use “gay” as a synonym for happy because it’s culturally outdated and a loophole to continue using the word derogatorily.) You knew not to laugh at homeless people or use the term hobos around me. You knew I don’t like misogynistic “jokes” or song lyrics that degrade women. You knew that joking about rape would earn someone a referral to both the principal and the counselor. You knew I would lose my cool on anyone who created more work for our cleaning staff by intentionally making messes or littering around school. You knew how fast I would stop class if I heard any kind of attack or threat on another student, no matter how small.

But I never really taught you why those things were important to me. It’s true that you could have guessed. Maybe occasionally I offered a very brief explanation. You could have inferred what I believed based on stories we read or the way I handled certain situations. But I never taught it the way I did subordinating clauses or figurative language or sonnets.

That’s because until very recently I thought it was fine to simply teach tolerance. Respect each other. Keep offensive remarks and behavior to yourself. If you can’t, things will get ugly with me.

I taught you wrong.

In my defense, it’s easier to teach tolerance. It’s faster. Issuing punishments and repeating mantras about respect takes far less time than sitting down and examining linguistic, cultural, and historical factors or talking about feelings. We have a lot of work to do with the curriculum alone, and sometimes it’s just faster to say, “We don’t use that word in my classroom,” or “That’s a lunch detention,” and move on.

But it can’t be the only way to teach. It makes my classroom a safe space, but it suggests that the only time to behave safely towards each other is inside that room. Coming down hard on insensitive behavior and remarks might protect the feelings of victims, but also isolates and vilifies the student who behaved in that way. Arguably, it probably also doesn’t change anything for that person, except to know that their teacher will shame them.

When I read the stories about Orlando, my heart broke wide open. I cried reading about the victims, thinking about the living nightmare the survivors must now endure. I cried for the LGBT community, here and abroad. I cried for the helpers, the first responders and the brave men and women who risked their lives to protect others. I cried for the shooter, because even though that amount of hatred is unthinkable, to reduce other humans to a value of zero, I have to wonder if he had been taught by people in his life that he, too, was worth nothing.

So this coming school year, I’m going to do something different. Instead of teaching tolerance, I will teach insistence. I will insist that everyone belongs—not just the people who think, look, or act like you.

I will insist that everyone—and I mean everyone, even (and maybe especially) that classmate you just can’t stand—has value and beauty and a story that would make you cry if you knew it.

I will insist that we read books with diverse characters—LGBT, Muslim, refugee, people with mental illness, etc. I will insist on class discussions throughout the year where we talk about people groups who are marginalized because of their race, sexuality, religion, or other factors related to their identity, and I will insist that their stories matter.

I will address the students who break my rules about respect firmly and swiftly, but more importantly, I will treat them with the same kindness and compassion I’m asking from them.

I will insist that building walls is never a solution to being afraid of those who are different from you.

I will insist that no matter how loudly the world might say that it’s dangerous to be yourself, love is louder, and love will win in the end, always.

Teaching insistence will take longer. It will require more of me—more energy, more compassion, more patience. It will require more of my students, too. But so much of what we’ve seen recently, and not just in Orlando, tells me we need it.

Former students, I’m not your current teacher anymore, but I have faith you’ll learn insistence from somewhere. In spite of everything, I believe in the good forces that are at work, and I believe that good is insistent, too.

I care about all of this so deeply because of you. Teaching has fundamentally changed me, is changing me, and it has to, because I spend hours every week interacting directly with kids who represent a vast array of beliefs, values, and experiences. I love each of you so much that sometimes I think I’m in actual danger of my heart exploding out of my chest, and more than anything I just want all of you to live in a world where you feel safe and strong and valued, because feeling safe and strong and valued makes it easier to be brave and kind and inclusive. And in case you haven’t been paying attention, we need more of that.

We need you.



19 Things I’ve Learned This Year That I’m Too Tired to Explain

Saturday, June 4, 2016

1. When dealing with people who are mean and wrong, it’s always better to use raccoon hands than a war hammer even though you might really, really want to use a war hammer.

2. Keep extra deodorant and a spare toothbrush in your desk.

3. I am pretty sure I am too afraid to ever have kids.

4. Or if I do I will need the Time Turner from Harry Potter, very intense sedatives, and sixty million dollars.

5. Many people have different beliefs/actions/values toward women in positions of power than they do toward men in positions of power... and a lot of teachers are women in positions of power. 

6. Education isn’t a broken machine, it’s a raging dumpster fire.

7. In that metaphor I can't figure out whether bad policy is the gasoline or oxygen. 

8. I like fighting fires. I really do. Even though it’s the worst sometimes.

9. There are 100 billion stars in our galaxy and probably 100 billion galaxies in our observable universe.

10. So probably there is an alternate universe where Alternate Universe Me is totally crushing it at life, so that’s comforting.

11. Rain boots. Rain boots have brought to life and nurtured a part of my soul that once dead and constantly had damp pant hems.

12. So many things don’t matter.

13. Wait, so many things do matter.

14. So many things are confusing. There we go.

15. Anyone who says that all classrooms should be loud and wild with kids talking at all times doesn’t know what they’re talking about, or hasn’t met an introverted child.

16. Actually, anyone who says that “all classrooms should look like X” probably doesn’t know what they’re talking about. 

17. (Unless they’re saying that all classrooms should be a supportive, safe space or something like that. You know what I meant.)

18. Teaching has made me rambly. And very tired. And stressed.

19. I love it anyway. (I don't get it.)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to sleep for a thousand years.



4 Big Misconceptions About Title I Schools

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

At my new school, I come in semi-regular contact with someone who likes to talk about my old school, which was a Title I school in an urban area. She will say things like,

“I bet it’s nice to not have to lock your room every time you leave now, isn’t it?”


“It must have been so frustrating trying to deal with those parents.”


“When I found out Phoebe was zoned to that school, we moved in less than a year. I just couldn’t risk her being influenced by some of those kids.”

When this individual says things like this, I first have to bite my tongue. I was cursed with a sharp wit, which, combined with a Mama Bear protectiveness of my former students and their families, creates some fairly hostile responses that I luckily have managed to keep inside my head.

Then I take a deep breath.  

Then I try to gently and without judgment show her that her notions about my former school and the students in it are misguided; that I loved those kids and my job fiercely and my leaving had nothing to do with either.

This woman is not alone. And she’s not a bad person. She is, like I would say a disturbing majority of the country, sorely under-informed of the realities of the relationship between poverty and education.

Based on conversations I find myself having over and over, both with this person and with others, these are what I believe are the four biggest and most dangerous misconceptions about working in Title I schools.

1. Teachers (and their possessions) are in danger. If you Google “Is teaching a dangerous profession?” you’ll find tons of results about how across the board, teaching isn’t exactly safe. But this is the case for all schools, not just Title I. I once had money stolen out of my non-locking desk when I was collecting money for a fundraiser at a Title I school my second year (rookie mistake). But in the five years I taught in Title I schools, that was the only time I had any of my personal items stolen or damaged.  I know teachers who have been teaching longer than me and in schools far wealthier than the ones where I worked have had their purses stolen, tires slashed, have been sued, had threatening anonymous emails sent to them—the list goes on. Fights were commonplace at the Title I school where I worked, but take a look at the nation’s worst school massacres and you’ll be hard-pressed to find one that wasn’t in an affluent neighborhood. Anything that could happen to a teacher in a poor school can (and does) happen in wealthier ones.

2. The parents don’t care. This is one of the things I hear a lot, and every time I hear it I want to set my arm on fire. This could not be further from the truth. Upper middle-class and wealthy people tend to look at the habits and actions of poor people and assume the parents don’t care about their child’s education or well-being, and their thoughts usually come in the “If they cared, why don’t they…?” format. Why don’t they ground their child or remove privileges? Why don’t they meet with the teacher? Why don’t they enroll their child in tutoring? Why don’t they write a letter to the school board? Why don’t they move into an area where their child will be zoned to a higher-performing school?

The problem with all of these is that these solutions are coming from a mentality of wealth. Wealthy people can ground their children or remove privileges because the household can afford for someone to stay home and ensure the child complies AND wealthy people don’t have to worry about their kids getting angry with them and going off to join the gang a few blocks over. Wealthy people already have flexible jobs that allow them to leave to meet with the teacher. Wealthy people can afford the high prices of homes and apartments in areas with high-performing schools, AND wealthy people are given better interest rates on homes in those areas. Wealthy people have the resources to 1) find tutoring, 2) have transportation to and from tutoring, 3) pay for tutoring.

Imagine you and your teenage daughter getting out of your new Honda Civic and a lady walking up to you and saying, “You know, if you really loved your daughter and cared about her safety, you would trade in your Civic and go get the Mercedes G-Class SUV. It’s much safer.”

Would you say, “Oh, wow, thank you—you really understand my needs! I’ll return this junky car in tomorrow, take out a second mortgage, and find a job that pays twice as much so I can buy that car which costs over $100,000. Thank you, kind stranger—I mean, savior!”

Uh, no. A ridiculous scenario, right? And yet so many people tend to pass similar judgments on people in lower classes.

In the five years I worked at Title I schools and met with parents, I never once met a parent who I didn’t fully believe loved and cared about the success of their child. Were some of them struggling balancing work and family life? Of course. Was it frustrating for me as their teacher? Of course. But I think if you ask any long-time teaching veteran of a wealthy school, she will be able to tell you plenty of stories of parents who hadn’t found the work/family balance, either.

3. The kids aren’t motivated. This is another huge misconception, one that I hear a lot from people in and outside of the education world. When they say something to this effect, I think they’re trying to make me feel better about having left, as if motivation isn’t something you can help develop in a child and I was right to have changed schools. But this misconception makes me so, so sad.

Deep down (and sometimes not even very deep down) every child wants to be successful. Every child wants to be smart. But sometimes there are huge obstacles that get in the way of this learning. Some are related to academia, like undiagnosed learning disorders, a language barrier, having huge class sizes that prevent personalized attention or opportunities to be challenged. Some aren’t related to academia at all, like trauma that has happened or is actively happening outside of school, and makes learning impossible. There are so many reasons children in poverty get behind, but it’s not because they have no intrinsic motivation. Having less motivation is a symptom of being behind and feeling helpless.

If you put me in a master’s level course at the Sorbonne with my one semester of French I took eight years ago and demanded that I pass, I would tell you you’re insane, drop out, and then go eat macaroons for the rest of the semester or until my money ran out. (And if you’re reading that scenario and thinking, “No, not me! I would hire a French tutor, I would buy Rosetta Stone, I would find a study group and seek language assistance from the school and I would definitely pass because I’m so motivated and great,” you’re using the wealth mindset—all of those are skills and resources that could only be acquired if you are already wealthy, understand the system, was part of a system that worked for YOU, and have had years of confirmation that hard work always leads to success.)

4. The teachers aren’t as good. I went through my entire K-12 schooling in one of the best districts in the state (and I believe at the time, one of the top twenty or so in the nation) and my entire middle school learning experience apart from maybe three teachers was a joke. I remember asking my science teacher, a woman who was only a few years away from retirement, if could choose Pompeii for a research project we were doing. First she asked me what Pompeii was, and when I told her, she rolled her eyes and said, “No, you can’t research a fictional event.” When I told her Pompeii was real, she very nicely told me to save it for my creative writing teacher.

What I’m saying is that sending your kid to a wealthy school does not necessarily mean you are sending them to good teachers.

Having taught in two Title I schools and a non-Title I school, I can assure you that both kinds of schools have their fair share teachers who are super-amazing and teachers who are not-so-amazing. For every burnt-out teacher in a Title I schools who passes out worksheets 180 days a year from behind a desk, there is an identical teacher doing the same thing at a wealthy school.

I would, however, say that teachers in non-Title I schools are for the most part less stressed and better supported, and I do recognize the impact this can have on performance. But again, this goes back to one of many issues created by the system (large class sizes, administrations having hands tied with discipline control, standardized testing), not an issue with the people who choose to work within it.

Now in clearing up these misconceptions, am I trying to say that kids in Title I schools receive the same educational quality as kids in wealthy schools? No. The majority of kids in Title I schools are being drastically underserved compared to their peers in wealthier schools, and it would be ignorant to think otherwise.

But what people need to understand is that the inequality has nothing to do with the teachers or children or parents of children in those schools, and has everything to do with the systemic abuse that year after year directly affects those who learn and work in those schools. I wish, when I talked to this person I mentioned at the beginning of this post, that I could tell her that she needs to stop being afraid of poor people and start being afraid of the people who are keeping poor people poor.

Wouldn’t it be cool if Hollywood made a movie highlighting the ugly brokenness of the system across schools instead of a sugarcoated story of how one (usually upper middle class) teacher saved the day for a limited group of people?

Sigh. Teaching is wishing.



P.S. Not knowing about Pompeii doesn’t make you a bad teacher. Refusing to know about Pompeii makes you a bad teacher.

The Sunday Afternoon Megasad Life Hole

Sunday, March 20, 2016

For much of my first two years of teaching, I experienced a phenomenon on a nearly-weekly basis that I call the Sunday Afternoon Megasad Life Hole.

I first fell victim to the Sunday Afternoon Megasad Life Hole during my first year, once the shiny happy first few weeks of school had worn off and I slowly started to realize several sad things about teaching.

1. Classroom management was REALLY hard.
2. Teaching 36 kids at a time who were 2-3 grade levels behind was REALLY hard.
3. Doing 1 and 2 with minimal support and resources was REALLY hard.
4. On Sunday afternoons, you are about to face five days of things that are REALLY hard.

The stress of Sunday afternoons was a mental thing, but also weirdly physical, too. Around lunchtime on Sundays I would burst into tears. That was followed by a brief self pep talk and then a deceptive upswing in mood. But then around 2:00 or so, I’d crash again. I would crawl into bed and just exist. And it wasn’t the awesome kind of being in bed where you might grab a book or turn on a TV show or play Words With Friends on your phone. I didn’t even have the energy to distract myself. I would just try to be as still as possible because moving felt bad.

I call it a life hole because it is very much like a black hole. Megasad Life Holes have their own gravitational pull, and despite your best efforts, you just, SHHHHHHLOOP!, get sucked right on in. And once you’re in, you’re kind of a goner.

And you’ll be that way forever. The end.

Just kidding.

This week I read a statistic that around 25% of teachers suffer from depression, and while that made me sad, it definitely didn’t surprise me. The combination of physical, mental, and emotional stresses of teaching is enough to make anyone fall victim to Sunday afternoons. For me, it was toughest in the first few years, but I’ve heard from plenty of decades-in veteran teachers who still find themselves in the Megasad Life Holes, unable to pull themselves out.

Being in a Sunday Afternoon Megasad Life Hole is hard enough on its own, but what made it harder for me was that I was sure I was the only teacher feeling that way. I was convinced that I was just born with a gelatinous backbone and that’s why I couldn’t handle the pressures of teaching. After all, almost every piece of literature I’d ever read on teaching talked about how it’s is always so awesome and wonderful, and even though it’s a tiny bit challenging SOMETIMES it’s so rewarding that it ALWAYS makes up for it!!!

(I don’t think we should burn books, but if someone ever forced me to hold a bonfire I’d say to go ahead and throw in all of the books that sugarcoat education.)

I had a fantastic support system. I have a family who loves me like crazy and the best friends in the world, but none of them knew what to do to help me on Sunday afternoons. And I don’t blame them for that--if I were one of them, I wouldn’t have known what to do or say, either. Teaching is really one of those things that you can’t understand unless you’ve been there.

So in other words, it’s kind of hopeless. I wish you the best of luck.

The end.

Just kidding again. That’s not the end. Here’s the good news about Sunday Afternoon Megasad Life Holes: while you can’t always prevent yourself from getting sucked into them, you can take steps to navigate yourself away from them in the first place AND make it easier to get out once you’ve fallen in.

1. Find a really, really good therapist. During my first year of teaching, I went a few times to a counselor who was free on my insurance. She was so kind, but not exactly helpful. This increased my feelings that I was a giant failure and couldn’t be helped and that Sunday afternoons would never get better. But a few years ago, after asking around for recommendations, I found the world’s greatest human/therapist who helped me immensely. She is not on my insurance, but I found ways to be able to afford her (moved my budget around, saw her once a month instead of every week), and it was still to this day the best investment I’ve ever made.

Side note: I think everyone should go to therapy, even people who don’t find themselves in life holes.
Side note again: When I’m president, ALL therapists will free to teachers.
Last side note: I don’t ever want to be president.

2. Stay busy on Sundays. Schedule yourself so that you have minimal time to ruminate and fall into a life hole. Don’t fill your time with things that will stress you out or take your energy away; fill your time with things that make you feel good. Which brings me to number 3!

3. Make a list of go-to activities that make you feel happy or powerful. Now I’m not talking “happy” like downing a margarita or “powerful” like finding vacuum cleaner bags on sale*. What makes you feel deeply happy or profoundly energetic? Mastering tough new recipe? Building something with your hands? Making art? Learning something new from a TED talk? Going on a long bike ride? Turning on your Teen Pop Spotify playlist and cleaning? Helping other people? Whatever it is, write it down and keep your list handy. The next step is to make the things on the list as accessible as possible, so that BEFORE the Life Hole arrives you’ll be ready to go. If you wait until Sunday afternoon to try to take action, even the things you love the most will feel like too much work.

4. Insist that you’re not alone. When you’re alone in your bed on a Sunday afternoon, it’s very easy to feel like you are also alone in your Life Hole. But you’re not. Trust me: I’ve been there, and I know that there are hundreds of thousands (if not more) people with you in that Life Hole. It doesn’t mean that you’re weak, and it doesn’t mean you’re a bad teacher. It means you care a lot about your work and are working extremely hard, which are good and honorable things. (It also means you’re not taking care of yourself, but number 3 should help with that.)

5. Believe it will get better. It will. It may take some time, or it may take an environment switch, but Sunday Afternoon Megasad Life Holes will eventually fade away. After my first two years, even though I went through some really rough times as a teacher, I don’t ever recall feeling depressed on a Sunday afternoon. I know it’s hard to tell yourself “this too shall pass,” but one day, you’ll look back on it and realize you were right.

Let me know if you've ever been in a Sunday Afternoon Megasad Life Hole. If so, what did you do to cope?

The kind of love that reaches alllllllll the way to the bottom of Life Holes,


*although I think most of us would agree that both of those things are quite excellent

Things I Said Out Loud, February 2016 Edition

Friday, February 19, 2016

Miraculously, this existed on the Internet prior to me writing this post.

The next time you're under a great amount of stress, you should really try keeping a running Word document for a week of weird or disturbing things you say. It's enlightening, really.

 “Sure, as long as when your parents ask, ‘What did you do in Ms. Teach’s class today?’ you don’t say, ‘We stood on tall things while holding sharp objects.'" After a student offered to take over my job of removing staples while standing on a chair.

“We do not pretend to slap the columns in the library.”

“We do not actually slap the columns in the library, either.”

“We do not pretend to vomit in the library. AND NO WE DO NOT ACTUALLY VOMIT IN THE LIBRARY.”

“Oh, an empty bag, very cool!" In response to a student showing me the beginnings of a drawing of a coral reef. Oops.

“I don’t mean to infringe on your personal beliefs, but cannibalism is discouraged in my class.” This was when students were demonstrating how to leave bite marks on each other’s arms.

“Even James Bond has feelings." In a workshop discussion on how much emotional landscape should be shown in action stories.

"No reading while walking! Who do you think you are? Belle?" Lest out of context you think I'm cruel, I said this to a student to whom I have a) given about 15 warnings about reading/walking, b) watched injure himself from reading and walking. Also, he giggled hysterically at this. Also, I really am cruel so joke's on you.

“Hamster. Puce. Liquid nitrogen. Give birth. Oh, past tense? Gave birth. Boiled cod. A disapproving glare.” My answers during MadLibs. I don't have a lot skills or traditional markers of human accomplishment, but I am UNSTOPPABLE at Mad Libs.

“Welcome to Athens, the land of opportunity! FOR RICH MALES.” This is cheating since a student said it and not me, but it was awesome and made me laugh very hard so I wanted to include it.

The lizard says meow quite loudly; yay.” Also cheating because this was written on the board. This, friends, was my example for iambic pentameter. Sometimes, making up examples as you go works well. And sometimes this happens.

“What are hemorrhoids?” Me, repeating back a student’s completely earnest question to me after he found the word in a book. This was followed by the realization that I actually didn't know the answer*.

Love and boiled cod and hemorrhoids,


P.S. You can read more stuff I've said out loud here and here.
P.P.S. How many days until spring break?

*Don’t worry. I Googled it. Ew.

8 Alternatives to Committing Arson When the Copier Jams for the 40 Zillionth Time

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

There's something wrong with me.

Actually, there's an alarming number of things wrong with me, but today I will be talking about my rage issue directed at copy machines.

Just the worst.

It all began at my first school, where our resources like textbooks and technology were so limited that virtually every lesson required printing and making copies. The dependence on these copies, combined with the unreliability of the teacher copy machine, created a situation in my psyche I'll refer to as the Danger Zone. 

I can’t tell you how many hours I must have wasted at that school trying to clear paper from the hot, plasticky, inky grip of that machine. (There was a good copier in the front office, but administration put a password on it to prevent teachers from using it. I am not kidding.) My first year, I would sometimes spend half an hour after school trying to get the copier to work, only to leave in tears and take my copies to an office supply store, where I’d be charged thirty dollars and reasonably lose faith in the whole world.

But with a semi-sincere thanks to my first school, I got really good at fixing the copier. After a while, I could remove paper from Areas A through X in record time. I could tell just by listening which tray the copier liked or didn’t like. Lulled into a false sense of security, I began to think that I actually had power over the copier; that it could no longer undo me.

But just a few days ago, at my new school, where my stress levels are at a five-year low, I went to the copy room thirty minutes before class started for a packet I needed. After loading the paper and making my selections, I heard the aggressive whirring sound that I knew signaled a jam. No big deal. Opened it up, removed fourteen pieces of paper from the various sections of the copier’s bowels, closed it, chose a different tray. Another jam. And another. And another. The machine jammed round after round as if the stacks of innocent paper were prey in the maw of some great and terrible megafauna. 

There’s a reason matches aren’t allowed at school, and it’s this: if I had matches, I would have set that copy machine on fire.

I went to the Danger Zone*.

Because of how deeply I want to make sure you don’t follow in my footsteps, I created the following list after lots of meditation and centering prayer:

8 Alternatives to Committing Arson When the Copier James for the 40 Zillionth Time 

1. Give the copier a name. Personifying the copier may create less hostility in you. It’s much easier to roundhouse kick a copier when it doesn’t have a name. Would you roundhouse kick Gladys? Or Nelson? Or Mabel? (Some names might not work. For instance, I would totally roundhouse kick a copier named Derek, but that’s for personal reasons. Make sure you choose a name that connotes no feelings of animosity.)

2. Think about brighter things. Front row parking spaces! Unexpected snacks at department meetings! Jon Snow! Students actually returning your pencils! The idea of literally anyone beating Donald Trump for the presidency!

3. Pretend a Rastafarian next to you just pointed at the copier and shouted, “WE BE JAMMIN’!” If that doesn’t make you smile, you should probably just go home. Tell your administrator that a blogger on the Internet told you to leave. I’m sure that won’t create any further questions.

4. Use this time as a chance to be reflective about your own shortcomings. Think about times when you’ve done something stupid over and over and over.  My list is endless. Keeping a bag of trail mix in my desk**. Putting huge glasses of water on the corner of coffee tables. Choosing weird passwords I can never remember. Giving students candy at the beginning of class instead of the end. See? Copiers aren’t the only ones who commit the same mistakes over and over, always with the expectation of a different outcome.   

5. Have at least one back-up lesson plan ready to go that doesn’t require copies so the next time the copier jams you can be like, “No worries, Gladys, we all have bad days!” and stroll out of the copy room, leaving your nearby coworkers befuddled as to how you ever passed for Highly Qualified.

6. Go to your mind palace. You don’t have to do anything there. Just take a few deep breaths and for a few moments live in a place that is quiet, pristine, and totally under control. My mind palace is on the edge of the sea at Land’s End in southern England, and if I look hard enough I can see lambs grazing in the meadow from my window just beyond the Diet Coke fountain. Ah.

7. Ask your administrator if he/she would be willing to consider a system in which every time the copier jams, it sends a message to deliver a small electrical shock to your administrator via a special collar around his/her neck.  Asking might get you a newer, more reliable copier! Or it might get you fired. But then you could find a job where you don’t have to make copies.

8. Visualize the paper forming a little punk rock band and actually jamming inside the copier. This won’t make your copies magically appear, but it may make you smile when you think about little pieces of paper with stapled lips or eyebrows jamming out on their tiny guitars and electric keyboards.

There. That feels better.

What's in your mind palace?

Love and deep breaths and Zen thinking towards copiers,


*Until literally ten minutes ago when I Googled it, I thought that Kenny Loggins song was "I Went to the Danger Zone." Did anyone else think it was "I went to the danger zone?" Welp, now that joke's lost.

**For some reason, right after my first handful of trail mix, I completely black out and when I come to I'm scraping the last sunflower seeds off the bottom of the bag. It's frightening, actually.