So, remember that time we wanted to move to Italy but it’s a bureaucratic nightmare, so we thought why not move to Amsterdam in the meantime because hey that seems fun, and then we got rid of our apartment and car and stuff and actually did it, and now we’re in Amsterdam?
To the people who took the time to read and say embarrassingly kind things about this post, thank you.
To the people who shared their own stories of struggle and loss: I’m so sorry.
To the people who are worried about themselves or someone they know, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (US and Canada) is at 1-800-273-8255. Use it.
As part of my job doing things on the internet, I take a lot of screenshots of various websites.
This is the most glorious one I’ve ever taken or will take:
Physical therapy: a place where you go and pay people money to force you to move about in ways designed to cause pain to your injured joint, so you can return home and resume sitting still so as not to cause pain to your injured joint. Makes sense.
There are electrodes and gels and many unidentifiable apparati. I think the physical therapists might be evil wizards, though it will take six more weeks of twice-weekly visits to be sure.
This thing that I edited is in an actual printed magazine. You probably don’t have a subscription to the Harvard Business Review so you can’t read the whole thing, but you can trust me: it’s really good, and packed to the very brim with correctly-deployed semicolons.
I travel a lot. I get stared at a lot because I am tall, and, oh yeah, fat. I’ve been stared at in a variety of foreign countries on several different continents.
Once, in Vietnam, I attracted an entire class of high school students who lined up to have their photos taken with me one at a time.
It’s the shortest day of the year! Which is awesome, because that means tomorrow is NOT the shortest day of the year, and eventually it will begin staying light past two in the afternoon.
As my father would have said, “We’re going into the gravy!” Which on one hand makes little to no sense, but on the other is immediately understood by everyone. It’s like a Zen anti-koan. (Also, who doesn’t like gravy?) Genius.
I realize there’s been a lack of curmudgeonliness emanating from this corner of the internet. it’s because I’ve been in Montreal since late June, pretending to be Canadian, and enjoying jazz and their ability to perfectly cook a duck breast.
I took some pictures. They’re over here. You can look if you want.
(I’m back in the States now, and find that my natural curmudgeonly state has reasserted itself undiminished.)