"The following actually happened, and I have the screenshots to prove it...

Months ago my best friend (Ryan) was flying from Boston to Los Angeles by way of Dallas, and I made a comment about him riding the tram at the airport. I then went on a weird tangent rating various trams I'd had been on, leading him to jokingly suggest I create a tram review blog. So while he was in the air between DFW and LAX... I did.


It's quite possibly the silliest thing I've ever done. I swear, there's a point to this.

Fast forward to two weeks ago. I'm flying from Connecticut to Minneapolis, headed to Los Angeles. Then we have engine trouble... 

I'll let the texts take it from here:

Me: "Got diverted to Rochester. Rebooked to a connection through Detroit. Guess who's riding some trams today!"

Ryan: "Live your tram dreams! Ride eternal,shiny and chrome"

Three hours later, now in Detroit...

Me: "WITNESS ME." [insert picture of tram]

Ryan: [insert picture of Slit the War Boy pointing] 

Me: [insert picture of Nux, mouth chromed up]

The End.

TL;DR I'm a writer, Fury Road is the fucking best, and I have a weakness for girls with unsettlingly intense preoccupations with movies and television shows, because I am one myself.*

I'm also not a serial killer."


*According to her "You should message me if" section, I ticked all her boxes. We ended up chatting for several weeks.

But boy did that go off the rails.

"Have you ever been walking down the sidewalk, mind wandering somewhere out in the forests of your imagination... when suddenly it hits you that there are thousand-foot buildings on either side of you, and that we cook our vegetables, and have special dainty forks for French cheeses, and a country named France, and countries, and napkins, and a rule against putting elbows on the table, and a fucking word for mid-arm joint thingies, and colors that mean stop and go, and tax brackets, and Halloween costumes for your neighbor's chihuahua that only ever seems to pee in the hallway outside your door but everyone's too afraid of rocking the boat to complain about, and $10,000 mahogany coffins that will only be seen for 15 minutes before being buried under an engraved hunk of rock that cost $20,000 to excise from the earth, and carve, and polish... and band-aids, and people whose job title is literally "manufacturer of band-aids," and care bears, and nuclear warheads, and a concrete sidewalk that hundreds of millions of years ago was hopelessly, wonderfully, immaculately alive—trilobytes—a sidewalk that you all at once stand upon right now, this very second, suddenly so intimately, breathtakingly aware that you even... are.

And do you just laugh, completely and utterly dumbfounded by the absurdity of it all: at the fact that you are, right now, here.

Me too."

Her response was something to the effect of "How long have you been in my brain?!" So at least I had that going for me. 

Mind melding is weird.

“You totally should have led with the photo of you sitting on the toilet with a microphone in hand, looking just a tiny bit confused about the fact that you're sitting on the toilet with a microphone in hand... as if some rando reporter just busted down the door for an impromptu interview about the benefits of a high fiber diet.

Interest. Piqued.” 

“Well, always be prepared.”

"Definitely tops the list of worst times to run out of toilet paper. Second worst would be an adorable Shetland Pony munching on the grass outside your window, begging for you to pet it, and there you are... nothing to wipe with. Trapped. Wait, no, don't leave! I'm sure my roommate dropped a sock somewhere. Just give me two minutes, please! 

Both are very likely scenarios."

"After the curator of the Chickpea Exhibit was found murdered at the Museum of Legumes, reporters were spotted going from room to room questioning witnesses about what they had seen. No comment from the Peanut Gallery."

I enjoy the weight of words... as you also seem to do... and existential run-on sentences—the gnarled, tangly kind that ensnare you in another person's thoughts, reminding you, if only for the briefest of moments, that you in your own mind are completely, infinitely, irrevocably (terrifyingly) alone, and reminding you that there are seven billion and some change other unique internal worlds jingling and jangling about out there in some seven billion and some change other heads—entire universes ballooning with color, and emotion, and opinion, and squishy, silly ideas—acre upon wild, green acre of lush mental real-estate; sprawling cityscapes of archived memory; a dusty, blurring slurry of long-lost self-history—entire dream factories whose product you will never once taste or smell or see or hear or feel; your own being the only one you will ever really know—the overwhelming weight of that fact being one of the few things to cut you down at the knees, and make realize just how small you are, and how very magnificent you are not... until you remember that all of these things are what paint you and those seven billion and some change other selves wholly, ineffably, beautifully human, all sharing breaths of the same warm air. And in that, you feel connected. Because here you are, one amongst many: alone, alive, aloud... together.

That. I enjoy that.


"Well, my dad's dead, so, THERE! Good luck feeding him that sandwich! But, no, really, please don't try feeding him a sandwich. That would be creepy and digging up a grave is illegal in most Tennessee jurisdictions, so I wouldn't want you being arrested for such a kindhearted yet very terrifying gesture because that would just be a really strange arraignment and flights to Nashville on United are expensive so I can't afford to sit in on the legal proceedings, so, thanks...

But I'll take that sandwich if you're offering."

On a typical Friday night, she was "Makin' a sandwich for your dad." Ha!  I totally showed her! Right? 


"I feel like there's some joke to be made about how we're the 99%, but I'm tired and I can't think of one right now so I'm just going to leave this sentence here, hanging in the wind, disappointed at its own unused potential. Or something."

"The only problem with you stealing a blue French horn for me is that I'm the sorta girl who's inclined to steal a blue French horn, too. It's mainly a logistical issue. If we couldn't find more than one, we'd have to fight each other for it.

It would be legen... wait for it..."

"Banana slugs are egregiously under-catered toward as a people. I mean, you have a poop emoji masquerading as chocolate soft-serve, but can't bother to depict a 9.8 inch long yellow slug in 128 square pixel form? How do you sleep at night, Tim Cook?

I've been to 5 countries as well."

I think she went to UCSC. I'm still salty about it.

"It's Ulta for me, instead of Sephora. There's always that quick mental calculation at the register... 

"Oh, shit, she's cute... you should flirt with her... but she works here... yeah, but you could cut a diamond with those wings... you make a fair point... I know... because skillfully applied eyeliner is a perfectly reasonable basis for having a crush on someone... you're mocking me... yes... but you're right she does work here... but she's so cute... inorite... but, but, Ulta, NYX, Lorac... we can always find another store... the next closest one is 20.4 miles away... did you really just google that to win an argument... it's so cute you even have to ask... ugh fine, okay... maybe next time... deal... I said maybe... I heard you... just making sure."

The eternal quandary of a femme seeking femmes everywhere."

"Are there really people out there who don't like animals? Like, I know intellectually they have to exist:  like people who enjoy being tickled, or diehard fans of Nickleback..."

"Serious question: How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in the Caribbean by providence, impoverished, in squalor, grow up to be a hero and a scholar?"