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A Carnival of Quackery

This has been a banner year, and I can't even talk about half the incredible things that have happened to me. You'll have to wait for the novel to hear about those.


The things I can talk about: Went to Turkey, got engaged, got vaccinated, saw my little ensemble blossom into a known entity in the Atlanta arts community, road-tripped across the entire country with my dog, played on stage again for the first time since early 2020, had one of the greatest professional experiences of my life (and I can't talk about it yet! ARGH!), got married, got LASIK, didn't get COVID. (These events are ranked more or less chronologically, not in order of importance.)


Outside, the world is still simultaneously on fire and underwater, but in my own quiet little corner life is pretty swell.


I refuse to feel bad about celebrating my milestones. Traumatic one-upsmanship is so passé.


Recently I finished David Sedaris's latest collection of diary entries. Now every time something mildly noteworthy occurs I think of how he would write about it. Today I found a mess of empty potato chip bags littered around the park. Because Sedaris picks up trash as a hobby, I thought about picking them up and throwing them in the trash. But then I didn't, because I'm both a garbage person and NOT a garbageperson.


I don't believe in New Year's resolutions but if I did I would resolve to write in this thing more. Ha! We've all heard that one before. See you in eleven months.

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