“I’ve got to start bringin’ a wheelbarrow out with me when I go huntin’,” the cousin guffawed sociably.

It was time for a proper introduction to the swamp.

There is a magician holding out a deck of cards. Pick a card, any card. Pick your path to God.

Christmas red, vibrant in the bright beam off the flashlight, but not in a festive way.

It's my civic responsibility - the critic part. Not the parade part.

That place somewhere between not throwing it around and saying how you feel.

The homeschoolers' safety patrol trip, minus the ugly orange belts.

But I wasn’t naïve enough to think that my rationality would last when the time came.

I put this really impressive Great Wall of China around myself, but apparently my forcefield is only perceptible to me.

Evil Facebook or no, I can’t walk away from bromeliads.

It came out of my fingers and into the paintbrush, among other places.

I stood there, waiting, with a silent agreement between us: If I do not move, the shadow does not pounce.

Finding the magic words to break that spell was going to require at least one YouTube video.

They were turning themselves into strawberry pie, and I hadn't even bought them yet.

I’ve learned from her that addiction is a strange mishmash of this-is-heartbreaking and get-your-shit-together.

There is nothing wrong with being a flower in bloom, other than the deteriorating hearing that comes with the territory.

Our logic was something like “Who cares if the place sucks? We will only be there to sleep.” Silly, silly us.

A burly man in pants smudged up with mystery grime, and legs that swaggered slowly within. On his face was a Jason mask.

I may have lived as a damsel in distress, but finally my knight had come. Two of them, actually—one for each foot.

This might seem a little off topic, but I don't trust artists. Never have. Never will.