Oh, it’s magical. I see you on your unicorn followed by a trial of sparkles and serenaded by oohs and ahhs. You make it look so easy because, well, it is easy, isn’t it. Your special thing.
I am ten and it is late October in Waterloo, Iowa and it is the last Halloween that I know I can officially go out and trick or treat. I am at that age—next year I will just be too old…
The Incredible Force and other childhood games.
Shove me into spectacular.
And genius—dip me in some genius.
Smack me with astonishing.
Elbow me into marvelous.
Sometimes when I am painting, I think my canvas may bow in the middle like a cheap swing set—a result of all of the layers of paint that are resting on it.
I’ve been waking up every morning between 4-430 for the last several months and I hate it. I’m tired. There is no reason for me to be up at the crack of ass.
Passion is such a ruling planet in all our lives–if we allow it.
My definition of passion has changed over the years. As a teenager, passion felt like wearing someone else’s shoes—
If your life were a movie, would the audience walk out?
Is your main character poorly played—possibly tedious? Is the story line hard to follow or, worse yet, is it just boring?
Thank God they didn’t shoot Seabiscuit.
They could have. Might have been easier. But someone wanted that horse to run so badly that they did all that extra…