In seventh grade, I had an addiction. Many afternoons, I stayed after school to work on the yearbook and the newspaper. Our staff worked simultaneously on both and each month, our newspaper (a packet of regular paper stapled in the top left corner) was handed out in the hallways during lunch. We were each charged …
The curtains are closed as I enter. All around, frenetic energy pulls at my attention like a toddler pulling at mom’s shirt. Some people are in their seats, others stand, their conversations growing louder and softer like waves toppling onto the beach, yet I remain focused on the curtains, on what’s behind them, on what’s …
I love socks. I’m one of those people who over-spends on socks that have animals and tacos and stars and dinosaurs on them. Especially dinosaurs. When I come across a pair of dinosaur socks at any given store, some sort of internal cruise control takes over my facilities and the next thing I know, I’m …
In Texas, swimming is as much as part of our lives as walking or driving. Especially during the summer months where the state turns into an oven more apropos for cooking slabs of meat than human habitation, we retreat en masse into the cool blue waters of overly-chlorinated pools. It’s simply too hot to do …
I don’t handle death well. Not that I have too much experience with it, but the few times I’ve been forced to face it, I don’t feel like I’ve processed it all that well. I was never clued in on how I was supposed to grieve. This whole “human experience” thing should really come with …
Ryan Brinson 