Essay

Allergies

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I love springtime but I suffer terrible allergies. Debilitating, grating allergies that sometimes prevent me from leaving the house. Most people seem to be affected by the yellow stuff that shows up on cars and in puddles. I am not bothered by that sort of pollen. Although, much like a traffic light, the yellow stuff is a warning that the pollen that sets my immune system on fire is on the way. 

I’m pretty sure it’s ragweed that makes me the most ill. Ragweed is everywhere and it emits invisible spores. The fact I can’t see the enemy is the most frustrating part. If it was the yellow stuff, I’d have a marker. I could go, okay it’s sneezing time for a few weeks until this stuff clears up. Ragweed pollen may not paint cars but it does use my nose as a siren, letting everyone know it is around. Continue reading “Allergies”

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Essay

Not My Last Supper

I have the luxury (or curse) of having ten plus years of stuff I’ve written on record, either in this blog or in thousands of pages of notes. We have a terrible habit these days of taking a tweet some guy wrote ten years ago and using it to sink their entire career. On occasion, I’m going to uses things I’ve written in the past to show you how absurd this practice is. I barely recognize things I wrote a year ago, much less ten. While I take responsibility for the things I wrote, because I did write them, I ask that you allow me the opportunity to change my mind. To admit I was wrong. Please let me learn from my mistakes, even if it takes years.

This is not easy for me to do but I think it is important. Something I wrote two years ago came up again and I feel the need to address it. “My Last Supper” is a small post, only 500 words, but it still lives with people I care about. And it’s ugly. And I’d like to correct the record. 

This old post is about how much trouble I used to have attending large gatherings like dinners. Instead of trying to figure out why and fix the issues in my life, I decided to blame the dinners themselves and my friends for even inviting me to them. I wanted you to know how much I hated the evenings and I wanted you to in turn quit having them or at least quit inviting me. The people that I’m speaking to in this post aren’t adversaries, they are people that I love. Why do I so crudely admonish them for inviting me to a party? I don’t know. I think I was looking for something or someone to blame for my unhappiness. Other than me of course. 

Honestly, I wanted to just delete the post because it is so hard for me to read and admit I even wrote. But because someone recently brought it up again, because they were planing a nice dinner and they were worried I would not agree to come, I feel the only way I can erase the damage the post has done is to address it verbatim. I so easily forget that the things I write and say matter. Even if it only matters to a few people.  

The words in bold are from the old post. They appear unchanged. I’ll also link the post here. Continue reading “Not My Last Supper”

Essay

He Died; I Skipped School

I don’t remember where I was when I found out he died. Information like that seems to move through a community telepathically. I was in eighth grade and he was in eleventh, I think. I don’t remember his name. Charlotte, North Carolina is a small community and the private school I attended was even smaller. I think there were around 1500 students. I graduated with 109 people and I would say that was an average size per grade. When 1 out of 109 out of 1500 dies, it resonates. It touches everyone in some way.  

I think it happened on the weekend. Memory is fuzzy. Maybe it happened on a Thursday night and the funeral was on Monday? I don’t know. The kid died in a car accident. Drunk driving. They hit a tree. One poor guy survived and had to live with survivors guilt ever since. I’m embarrassed by what I did, but he, he had to live with that moment. One second they are having a good time, enjoying their youth, taking a risk (but you never consider it a risk until you hit a tree), then, wham. Over. He was a handsome kid too, which seemed to make it worse. Continue reading “He Died; I Skipped School”