I am thankful for text messaging.

Edited only slightly for obvious typos.

From: Jamie
I am thankful for you and I hope you’re having a good day…give Mags and Tyler my affection please :]

From: Megan
Happy Thanksgiving <Mentzy*>

From: Molly
Happy Thanksgiving Ashley! I am thankful everyday for our friendship. I love you!

From: Lucas
Happy thanksgiving to you too, dawg. – Randy Jackson

From: Tyler
Happy Thanksgiving to u 2!! Btw don’t call me sir we’re bros

From: Doug
Happy Thanksgiving! I am thankful for the fact that u replaced Matt and that u are at least 50 times cooler than him, and u have boobies which is a major plus.

From: Brady
Hey there. Happy Thanksgiving. Whether you’re chowing down at home or somewhere else, remember, you always need to eat dessert!! Have a good un.

From: Maggie
I am thankful that ur mom made u move 2 Ohio all those years ago. Thank u for being u and being in my life.

Now I’m a little bit older, a little bit bolder

I did it, motherfuckers.

I got back about half an hour ago from the post office, or driving behind it, to put a letter in the mailbox. I couldn’t have it sitting about my house for fear of trashing it and, since I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to meddle with mailboxes, I can’t get it back now. Before leaving I spent only a few minutes writing it after being overcome with a very intense urge.

That’s the loudest my radio’s maybe ever been on a drive. I needed some kind of distraction. Thank God for She & Him.

And now my greatest literary masterpiece. Yes, you are supposed to laugh at the parts where it seems funny seeing as nothing you can’t laugh at is worth taking seriously. I share with you because, between you and me, there are no secrets. And I wouldn’t want there to be.

Martin,

My name is Ashley Keniston Caggiano and I have reason to believe you are my biological father. I am 22 years old, so know that contacting you is not an attempt at extorting child support or any other monies from you. Truth be told, I have no idea what I want, maybe nothing, which is why writing this letter has been something I’ve attempted to do an incalculable number of times for the past nine years since I first heard your name and found your address when I was thirteen and have failed at miserably each time.

I also want you to know that disrupting the lives of your family members is definitely not something I want either. You, I admittedly care less about, but to the people who you have chosen to love, or at least take care of, I would never wish any discomfort. This does not mean, however, that they are a good excuse to ignore me. Similarly, I wish no disruption to the lives of my family members, so if you were to write me a letter back I would appreciate if it were done via the internet as opposed to my mailbox which my mother, Helen–you know, always checks.

I can be reached at ashleycaggiano@gmail.com

But that, of course, is all pending on your choice.

I wouldn’t want to be so presumptuous to think that you would want to know anything about me, so I won’t bother to go in depth, but you should probably know that I’m pretty sweet (in both the sugary and colloquially “awesome” ways). Despite how cold and calculating this letter has seemed up to this point, it’s probably the exact opposite of my personality. I also watch too much TV and read too little especially considering I’ve just received my BA in English. I am not the woman who is currently being recruited for women’s basketball, just to be clear. I am afraid of people, but more afraid of being alone, and I have an immense capacity to love which is probably the real reason why I am writing this letter.

There are only two people in this world that I’ve ever been able to harbor hate for. Of course you cannot think you are exempt from this list. The other I sometimes think I can handle and get over despite feeling this way for fifteen or so years about that person, but when it comes to you I have no sense of openness, let alone closure. And this isn’t fair.

I have so many times felt worthless and like my existence, since it was accidental, unwanted, and downright dismissed, was never supposed to be. I don’t want to feel this way anymore, but unfortunately I don’t know if I can get passed it without some kind of validation from you. That is pathetic, but it is the way it is.

But mostly I don’t want to hate anymore. Partially because I want to get into heaven, but mostly because it eats away at me. It makes my soul feel like someone’s shot holes through it and my stomach nauseous. I can pretend like I don’t hate you, like I’m apathetic to the whole thing, but I’ve come to realize that’s a lie. Everyone in this world deserves love, but I’m beginning to wonder how capable I am of it, or how capable I’ll be of it in the future, when I’m filled up with so much hate and it keeps eating away at me. I also don’t want to believe that people can be so disconnected from real life that they can ignore things like the human beings they create and the women that they used, and then feel alright about it all.

It’s weird–I’ve tried writing this letter a billion times. There have been better drafts, just so you know. Immensely better, rage-filled, heart-wrenchingly amazing drafts. There are still things I want to say, but ending it here seems like what’s going to happen.

Do what you will,

Uh, and then I signed it.

God says nothing back

I just wrote a bunch of stuff that you’ll never see.

It is well after three in the morning and I am awake. In the past three days I’ve gotten about 12 hours of sleep. Does that sound right? I mean about 4 hours for each 24 hour period. And this isn’t quality sleep by any means. When I want to sleep is between the hours of about 4:30 am and 2:00 pm despite that I’m waking up at seven. I thought my pattern was just disrupted at first. Now I’m pretty sure something is really wrong.

I feel like shit.

I wish I didn’t feel this way.

I wish I understood why I do.

I wish I could make it go away.

I wish somebody would understand.

I wish I could talk to somebody who doesn’t know anything about me and that they would tell me that I’m normal or that these feelings are justified.

What did I really do to deserve feeling this way right now?

I think that my existence is very fake to most people. I just wish I weren’t still in the same situation I’ve always been in. Everyone’s come to expect something. I’m going to spend the rest of my life apologizing and it will never be enough.

take this to my grave

I made a new thing. A manageable thing. It’s here:

another dwindled dawn

I want you to like it because, let’s be honest, I crave attention and validation. Plus I keep drawing all these tiny pictures that mean weird stuff to me and I’ve got to do something with them. I’m going to try to update every day. This should be eeeee-zay.

So this sickness I’ve been fighting off has been really courteous and has allowed me to feel only marginally ill on very brief occasion at night instead of making me actually sick so that I miss work or whatever. But I think it’s maxed out its agreeability because my nose is just not cooperating.

But the point to blogging today? Music. I had to do a little overhaul on my iPod because there was some unseemly stuff on there and while I did I actually got a look at what was going on. I almost always listen to it on shuffle, but I think there is a method to the iPod madness because the same songs from albums come up (always fucking “House of Wolves”–WHY???).

I have loved some really shitty music. Well, actually, it’s not shitty, but most people would think so and that’s fine because, since it’s an art form, it’s subjective anyway. We might all agree, though, there isn’t a whole lot of substance to, say, a Spice Girl’s song, but that kind of music really shaped who I am now, so it still affects me when I hear it. All that poppy music in the form of girl bands and female solo acts, they are the driving force behind my feminism now. That’s completely crazy, isn’t it? It’s laughable. But to a ten year old who was really looking for something to identify with, the Spice Girls offered me something that no other thing could ever replace. Okay, laugh, it’s fine. I’ll stand by that, though, til I die.

(Those girl groups are also the reason why I squeak when I sing loudly or quickly because I’m an imitator, I have no sound of my own, and they all did that…ugh.)

The Spice Girls taught me “girl power.” And they said it in British accents so it made the concept even more believable and desirable. Now when I listen to their songs I kind of hear it in their lyrics through this insane, take-charge sexual stance. Not that it’s insane to take charge, but it was kind of insane that those lyrics were marketed to preteens. But however prepackaged or inappropriate their image was, and however superficially they presented the girl power concept, to the girl I was then, seeing the relationships that I did in my real life, it was the entire world. It was something greater than I thought I could ever hope to be. Something to really aspire to. There are plenty of women in America who are very unmoved by feminist sentiment which is understandable because we’ve got it pretty good compared to the rest of the world (and we’re blind to the rest of the world to boot) or we’ve been led to believe that “feminist” is code for “bitch” and that inequality doesn’t exist in this country because there are words in some document that say so. Sometimes I think that, without the Spice Girls, I would be like this too. Which is kind of nuts. And pretty sweet.

I hope this wasn’t true for just me, but even if it was, it’s still sweet.

And it’s also sweet because it led me to this other music that was feminist like TLC. When Lisa Lopes died that was the first time I ever was affected by the death of a celebrity. And the last. I know, it’s really odd to feel for someone dying that you didn’t know, but her life was tumultuous and I always felt the anger in her lyrics even if I couldn’t understand the racial or economic concepts behind them, so when she died, I don’t know. I was 15. I don’t know, but I mean, geez, she wore a condom as an eye patch! Who can’t love that? And my left eye is lazy and too small and her left eye is too big. It’s kind of nuts.

Anyway, the point is, I love music. I know that doesn’t seem like the point of this post, but it was supposed to be. But more on that some other day when I don’t have work the next morning…which is pretty much everyday.

Actually, I think the bigger point is that the Spice Girls told me I could be and do anything that I wanted to be–anything at all–and I believed them.  And I still do.

Badass of the Week

If ever you’ve stumbleuponed this website, the title here will be familiar. I read from it to Mrs. Brown yesterday and she said, “I wish I were a badass of the week!” Little did she know, she already was one.

(The following is an imitation in the style of badassoftheweek.com as that is a legitimate form of writing, I swear.)

Colleen Faherty Brown

Those glasses are for your protection.

Interest in bicycling peaks annually some time in mid-summer when all of America tunes in to one of the twelve hundred ESPNs to catch a glimpse of a single-nutted American hero fly past all those beret-wearing, baguette-eating, complete-scrotum-having Frenchies in a blur of yellow and wheels, and they probably should because Lance Armstrong really is sweet like that. But what those couch potatoes watching him on television from the comfort of their sweet little suburban homes fail to realize is that Colleen Brown, who could end Lance Armstrong’s existence with a nonchalant, sideways glance, reducing him and his Trek Madone SL to mere skid marks that Alberto Contador wouldn’t even notice, is actually the most badass cyclist to ever set wheels to the motherfucking pavement.

Born in the Appalachian Ohio wilderness amongst man-eating mountain lions and equally-human-consuming bears, Colleen’s ability to kick wildlife ass and reach speeds exceeding eighty miles an hour were ingrained from the moment she popped out of the womb, which, by the way, she did all on her own. With a whopping seventeen brothers and nineteen sisters, the necessity for Colleen to fend for herself was, needless to say, intense; however, she managed to care for them all while still developing her own badassitude to the highest levels. She went on to mother two daughters of their own notable badassery, and grandmother a pirate. That’s right, I said a freaking pirate. The American government has even recognized her skills as she’s been employed by the state to kick the asses of jerk offs who are less than responsible caretakers of their elders. Also, she’s earned a black belt in tae kwon do. Three fucking times.

Thinking about who's getting the smackdown next.

But our story does not deal with the adolescence nor general sweetness of one Mrs. Colleen Brown despite how earth-shatteringly awesome the tales of her life are and how mindfucked you would be at hearing them. Oh no. The events that prove her to be the badass of the week took place on the balmy morning of Monday, August 9^th, 2004.

Whilst riding along the quiet and often uninhabited bike trails of Nelsonville, Ohio with her husband and partner in badassery, David Brown, there occurred a moment that will live forever in badass history. You see, Colleen is not like the aforementioned sofa spuds who tune in and turn off when televised sports blow up. Colleen blows up. In the metaphorical, becoming active sense, of course, but she could literally not-so-spontaneously combust too, if she wanted, as she is a ninja and learned that skill during her tutelage under some white-bearded Korean martial arts master whose name I won’t repeat to you unless you actually want to be hunted down in your sleep and have your life stripped away three days after the fact from the kwon su ping which loosely translates to “palm fist of death by diarrhea.” And Colleen would take you all down with her if she chose to do so while blowing up, but she will allow you to go on living your measly little existence for now because she’s gracious like that. So, Colleen bikes. Not wussy, go for a ride every week or so bikes; Colleen hardcore, spandex shorts, thousand dollar bicycle, millions of miles every day bikes. And she doesn’t break a sweat. Or get tired. It’s just what she does.

On the aforementioned date, Colleen was minding her own business, riding down the trail and just generally being awesome when some motherfucking, batshit crazy, envy induced calygreyhound ran out of the brush and attacked her. That’s right, the mythical medieval beast you only heard of just now. Turns out it’s real, and you didn’t even know it fake existed, did you? Well, it does, real exist that is. The calygreyhound is one fucked up amalgamation of some of the craziest animals on earth with a wildcat’s head with throat-ripping fangs, a stag’s body for speed and antlers for bowel shredding, both eagle claws and ox hooves, and a lion’s tail just for good measure.

A photoshopped artist rendition of the calygreyhound as this ass is too much of a puss to be caught on film.

This thing went fucking nuts on Colleen because, while most people don’t know anything about the calygreyhound, even less know that it has an insatiable thirst for awesomeness. Residing solely in the sparse forests of Oxford, England and feasting on the snaggletoothed crumpet-guzzlers the British Isles are forced to pass off as “awesome” but really only qualify as “sub-par okay,” this calygreyhound, later found to be named Pete, was drawn to Ameri-fucking-ca and the one and only Colleen Brown when it caught a whiff of awesomeness in its purest form.

Now, while bikes are wonderful modes of transport, when a thirteen hundred pound legendary monster powerhouses into the side of one going upwards of one hundred and fifty two miles an hour as Colleen usually does, it’s bad news. Colleen was thrown from what became a rolling mass of spikes and titanium into the pavement. Her hip was immediately shattered, shoulder separated, a joint was popped out of place in her spine, and she suffered the expected bumps and bruises that come along with assault by fabled beast. But that wasn’t stopping her. Colleen stood on her broken hip, thrust her shoulder back into its socket without even a grimace of pain and spat out a tooth like some cinematic action heroine. On crack. That calygreyhound messed with the wrong badass and it was time for some calygreyhound ball-crushing carnage.

In a flash, Colleen had ripped the now tangled spikes from her bicycle and fashioned a modern cyclist’s dream weapon of crazy pointy metal, delivering what can only be described as a cock-punch to the neck of the calygreyhound, slitting his throat open and showering the surrounding area in blood and bile. Pete didn’t even get a word in edgewise, not that “I’m lamer than a three-legged, blind kitten and a total douche bag to boot” would have subdued the skull-crushing rage Colleen mustered up at the sight of her destroyed two-wheeler. She was like a Tarantino version of Beowulf on acid or some shit, only sweeter because she’s a woman and has spiky hair. Innards were all over the trail and hanging from tree limbs SyFy Channel, overblown, B-list movie style, only it was real because, as everybody who knows knows, when the calygreyhound is decapitated, his insides spew from the newly made wound in a last, feeble attempt at revenge which Colleen stood against, a mangled mess herself, like it was a gentle spring shower and not a fucking torrent of legendary guts and gore.

Comforting this small child after choking out that croc with her bare hands.

David Brown stood there, amazed, knowing she didn’t need any help all along. He too suffered the shower of calygreyhound intestine and related juices but was mostly unharmed, the sheer greatness of Colleen’s dick-devastating action enough to bolster anyone’s spirits, even when covered in what is essentially monster corpse. He later made her the sweetest cookies that had ever been produced from any oven that you or I could ever imagine thanks to his comfort with his own masculinity and crazy ability to rock your fucking face off.

Now with two titanium rods in her back causing slightly limited mobility and occasional bouts of chills, the result and proof of her run in with Pete, Colleen lives and kicks asses in quiet, rural Ohio on the edge of the woods with her family, knowing she is all that stands between them and the carnivorous beasts of the wild. However, she’s not bothered, cautioning any creature that dares make its way up her porch steps with their own tailored version of a calygreyhound smack down be they wolf, gryphon, fire-breathing unicorn, or, the greatest predator of them all, raptor. You thought I was going to say “man” didn’t you? Well, no–raptor’s are fucking nuts and there’s no two ways about that. But just below them is certainly not “man”; that spot is reserved for Colleen Faherty Brown, total fucking badass.

at 2 am

Last night I realized something:

Even if no one new ever loves me it don’t matter because, right now, I’m pretty much as lucky as they get.

 

Random Collection

You know when you really love a band and then they get really popular and it seems like everyone loves them and you’re all like “Ugh?” That’s how I feel about Glee. But I wanted everyone to love it, so actually the whole thing’s a success, I just had to get that out.

I feel like a jerk when I click “ignore” whenever someone invites me to join a cause on Facebook, but I find them pointless. Being aware is one thing, but I just think social networking sites are supposed to be for like…social networking. Granted I do post stuff about bunnies and such.

Speaking of Facebook, all of you who are buying shit with real money on my favorite applications are pissing me off. What’s the point? Just don’t play–just go get cheat codes and push your island to its beta version limit, k?

Dear Every Channel,
You’ve all picked up reruns of The Office. Thank you,
Ashley

I am so behind on NaNo words that I’m starting to get worried because I’m finding it very difficult to produce crap. Very. I knew it would be crap, but I didn’t know it would be so hard to submit to it.

And, whenever I’m alone, I’ve had this on my mind instead of my story:

Once a friend said to me something along the lines of, “It’s because your faith is so new that you keep seeing good in everyone.” He was mad at me so maybe it wasn’t total honesty; he either really meant it or really didn’t mean it. Whichever, this often comes back to me and I wonder if it’s true that someday the honeymoon’s going to end. Not that I don’t have moments when I see things and I think, “Ugh, people suck,” but I always return to believing in goodness. And it’s not that he was trying to convince me that people are bad. I’m sure what he meant was that I needed to pop out my rose-tinted contacts for a second.

Anyway, I just don’t want to ever wonder.

So be cool, okay?

I watched J.K. Rowling’s Harvard commencement speech today. You can watch or read it here, but I suggest listening to her because she’s not the world’s best speech giver which makes it more real and amazing. Plus she’s British.

Also, I made this imaginary album cover for my side project band which features Molly Harbarger and Maggie Sampson from The Banana Appeal and it’s pretty sweet. Enjoy:

You are fucking welcome, world.

Don’t be afraid to sit on my bed

Tyra Banks says we should sleep in a bra and nothing else because we are in a constant battle with gravity but our vaginas need to breathe. I must say: she is right. But seeing as gravity has little affect on my chest (and I actually like to be able to expand and contract the cavity which houses my lungs) I ignore the bra part of her advice. I went to bed naked last night. It’s probably one of the most amazing things you can do. Maybe you know this already, but for those of you who don’t, even if you’re unlucky enough to not have a vagina, you need to try it. You won’t be sorry…unless someone walks in while you’re asleep and you’re a cover-kicker.

Tyra Banks has lots of other good advice. For example, you should always smize when your picture is being taken. To smize = to smile with your eyes. It’s basically advanced squinting. But don’t just squint, she’ll yell at you for that.

And you should be proud of your fat ass, but only after you’ve lost thirty pounds.

Furthermore, Ms. Banks thinks that, when you feel attacked by everyone, you shoud sit on the opposite side of the room from all of them and let them go around in a circle and say exactly how you’ve hurt them.

Also, Tyra Banks was rooting for you–we were all rooting for you! And she has never in her life yelled at a girl like this!

Take responsibility for yourself. So sayeth Tyra.

Anyway, sleep naked.

I want adventure in the great wide somewhere

As far as NaNo’s going–I’m behind, but it’s okay because I’m catching up today and tomorrow. I almost threw away my entire idea. I hated it for a whole day, but it’s fine now. This is the kind of turmoil I actually enjoy. Not the kind where I’m hyperventilating because someone’s going to judge my looks.

Ugh…I don’t want to talk about it.

But I will.

Maggie and I went to Pittsburgh yesterday. That, in itself, was pretty wicked. Spending any time with Maggie is always fun and this was a super good trip–the only thing it was missing was Molly. The Browns let us borrow their GPS, who we dubbed Activia (yes, after the fiber-heavy yogurt), and thank goodness because, without it, we would still be driving around West Virginia probably.

So, the reason for going was for an audition. Yeah, that’s right, a theatrical thing. It was for Disney; they were holding auditions for Disney World, Orlando face characters and parade people. I found it online and decided, on a whim, to go like a week and a half ago. I read up on auditioning specifically for them and, really, it seemed easy. I didn’t have to sing, I didn’t have to even really act–I needed nothing prepared but my freaking awesome self. But of course that failed me.

We all know I have intense stage fright, but when I went into that audition room, well, first of all it wasn’t a theatre with a stage. It was a dance hall. You know, with the wall made up of a giant mirror and a ballet bar and everything. And I was surrounded by dancers. I knew there’d be dancing, but I was not expecting this. I don’t know how to dance! I don’t even know how to do a grapevine! But that wasn’t what really got to me: it was the other girls.

They were so done up, all this makeup and their hair was perfect. I’d read you’re supposed to be a blank canvass for auditions. I didn’t even have foundation on. And they were so bouncy and happy–they were already cartoon characters. They all wore like those tights with the shorts over them and had genuine jazz shoes and they had dancer’s bodies and it was just ridiculous. But the most intense thing was how badly they wanted it. You could see it–this is what they had been doing since, like, they got out of the womb. Their whole lives were there, depending on those few seconds you get in front of a casting director. And that’s not me. I hate that. And I just don’t care like that.

Not to mention the anxiety attack I was incurring surrounded by all those people at the prospect of looking like an idiot. It’s true–I do care what people think. On some level we all do.

So I freaked out, got Maggie, and we left for the Cathedral of Learning and pretended it was Hogwarts. That’s right, chickened out, didn’t do it. I suck.

But it should have been expected–when I have to sing 45 seconds a cappella in front of Terri Studer in the New Lex High band room I break out in hives.

So, new mission? Graduate school. Because, yes, those were the only two choices. I hate school when I’m there, but I miss and love it when I’m not. And graduate school will not force me to take math and science and other utterly useless courses like I did for my B.A. Do you know why I hated school? It sucked all the creativity out of me. I spent hours upon hours reading other peoples’ works and analyzing them until there was no mystery or beauty left. I can’t even watch a commercial anymore without figuring out the rhetorical strategy of it and deeming it stupid. Sigh…see, it also turned me into an asshole. Not to mention the hours I sat in other classrooms and at home studying for subjects that I’m never going to use. I DON’T CARE WHAT THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN AN IGNEOUS AND METAMORPHIC ROCK IS. Frankly, I already know, FROM MY ENGLISH BACKGROUND, that, to metamorphosize, means to change, so that’s the difference. AND KAFKA TAUGHT ME THAT! Also, I’d tutor and that would suck all the brain power out of me. Tutoring is like incredibly draining. I like it, yes, but afterwards I can’t even do things like tie my shoes.

(Disclaimer: Yes, I understand the point of a liberal arts degree. I’m just kidding…)

But as a graduate I could focus on the one thing that’s never really failed me: writing. Specifically creative writing. I’ll actually be able to exist in a world where I want to be fully immersed and where I can give and take equally with others. I’m going for an M.F.A., yes, a terminal degree, and I don’t give a shit that it doesn’t mean anything to other people in the academic or professional world. You can study the history and works of some dead, white guys if you really want to and you can force it down the throats of apathetic 18 year-olds for the rest of your life, but good luck ever actually creating something original. I spent four years at a college that I should have never gone to (granted, I do love it) settling for just English studies when I should have at least focused in rhetoric or, better yet, gone to art school and honed some drawing skills or went to a far-off place and actually gone after a B.A. in creative writing. I didn’t even take the time four years agao to find out that this exists.

I seem to always make the wrong choice. I just interminably screw up. Here’s a secret that’s really not a secret to anyone: I went to OSUN to be with Raymond. Of course. Because I’m incapable of making my own choices and the only thing I’ve learned family-wise is that men treat you like shit so it’s okay, you can deal with it and suppress anything you feel, as long as you can get them to stick around. You all know I didn’t belong at that place and so did I. The school’s great, but where am I now? Still trudging to Licking County to tutor. I enjoy helping people, I love the learning that goes on in that space, but I want something more. And, God, I’m not even married! Granted, I’d rather be alone forever than married to Raymond (sorry, but it’s the truth), but the part of this that I hate the most is the fact that I feel like I should be married to someone if I’m not pursing something else. It’s pathetic and disgusting.

But mom said she’d get me a time machine for Christmas, so everything should be fine by December 26^th.

I’d never really known anybody that died before

So today, well, damn, yesterday was All Saints Day. Here’s a fun fact: when I was little I used to think that, to be a saint, you had to have done something miraculous. So, it turns out this is kind of the case, but I interpreted this the way that, well…the way that I would. I genuinely thought saints had done something magical. Not like the kind of magic one finds in a young girl’s heart, but like Harry Potter magic. Swish and flick magic. I wasn’t terribly well versed in Christianity as a kid, but I used to watch a LOT of fantasy sci-fi.

These people always have been and always will be my heroes.

All Saints Day was implemented to counteract the earlier form of Halloween. The Christian appropriation of pagan holidays is sad. I don’t say this because I celebrate like an authentic Halloween or something, I just think it takes away from the supposed meaning of the new holiday. Not to mention it sucked for those being persecuted and on top of that we lose out on the history of a culture deemed unworthy by the rising majority. But anyway…

So I guess a layman’s version of All Saints Day is the day set aside for saints, known and unknown, who don’t have their own specific days (think Valentine and Patrick), to be honored. Denominations do everything different–some honor people in congregations who have passed away too. I don’t know the specifics, only what the History Channel decides to edit in. But I do think I understand a little better what sainthood is than I did when I was little, and though I’ve never celebrated November first, I’ve always felt like I’m supposed to because of my family’s Catholicism. But, like I said, that’s no reason to embrace a holiday. Not because you’re supposed to.

So instead I’m looking at…yesterday…like a Thanksgiving. I’m thankful for the fact that people do good things. That people don’t always suck. Because sometimes people do suck, but we’re all capable of good. And I know some really, really good people.

I’d make a list and I’d put you all on it, this is what I originally intended to do, but you’ll have to wait for Thanksgiving for that.

I don’t want to say that it’s hard to be a good person because I don’t really believe it is. Not that I succeed at this very often, but making choices that are beneficial for others and produce more good for the world should really be the default for us. I don’t know. This is…going to need some more deliberation. All I know is that it feels better to be at peace than anything else.

So I’m sorry for the mean stuff I said. I’m really sorry I ever made you feel bad.

Today is All Souls Day.

And I still think some saints were magic. Just sayin.

Oh, and I wrote 2610 words today.  Booya!