I'm freaking out.
I have to start a blog.
That's what writers do.
They have blogs, and mac books, and grants from Dave Eggers.
They have strawberry preserves, and collections of butterfly wings in vintage crayon boxes.
Don't worry, I also have a moleskin.
Not to mention sky blue sheets from Target- rolled up in a ball at the foot of my Ikea bed- framed boyfriend livin- cat ownin- heat included- day job.
I'm a writer. I have boots that go up to my pelvis, and eyes that have never been fitted for anything older then eighteen. But, actually I'm about one month and two lifetimes shy of twenty eight.
And I promised myself a long time ago that if I could just survive the winter that would be plenty.
skin and toast