When I picture saxophone I picture a vague man in a black bowler and a loose suit jacket, over a t-shirt. He has cliche sunglasses and a sense of rhythm I can’t hope to follow. There is a looseness to his mannerisms I recognize but is otherworldly to m...

This month, I’ve had the air knocked out of me repeatedly. That feeling, that empty screeching feeling of having no breath to draw when it’s so desperately needed has become so common it doesn’t surprise me anymore.

Love is modeling the right thing even when it is not instinctive. It is showing up when there’s 5 minutes left in the final quarter and they are 25 points behind. It is cheering, and rooting when it feels like hope is lost because you are their person ...

I have something to say. It’s here, at the top of my tongue, rasping in my throat, frog-crawling up involuntarily.

My grandmother lived in the same house for almost 70 years. And when I say the same house I don’t mean

List of things in my house that are accidentally romantic

Ode to Logan Echolls

I used to cringe when I read typos on lawn signs.

I am exhausted. My head is weighted from behind, the back of my skull caving out a dent in the pillowcase.

It doesn’t feel hopeless anymore to admit, we’re all going to die someday.

Fuzz

Door County Candle

Scanning through Facebook won’t create anything new. Scrolling through Instagram won’t satisfy creative cravings.

Billy the Dinosaur