The Reaper’s Kiss
There’s a difference between watching somebody face death and being the person staring through the fucking door. Once you’ve crossed that threshold and somehow come back, mortality stops being an idea. Tomorrow isn’t promised. You know that in your fucking bones.
Thanks for the Material, Asshole
The danger of putting your work into the world is that everybody has a fucking mouth, and the internet gave everybody balls. One anonymous asshole decided to make fun of a tooth I’m still dealing with after nearly dying in a motorcycle crash. Unfortunately for him, he picked on a fucking writer.
The List
Almost a year after the motorcycle crash, I showed Dawna the list of everything that had been broken, torn, punctured, crushed, or otherwise fucked up that night. I expected her to understand what I survived. I wasn't expecting the fucking list to remind me how much of it I'm still carrying.
Cosmic Voicemail
I haven’t written much this week, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped. If anything, I’m more convinced than ever that the words matter. I survived cardiac arrests, a motorcycle crash, and enough reminders that tomorrow isn’t fucking promised. So I’m writing like I’m leaving a cosmic voicemail behind.