There was a homeless man standing about 20 feet from me at the bus stop, with suspiciously deep pockets, and teeth that desperately needed a good cleaning. I slipped a in the slot, and retrieved the magazine from the dispenser. I fingered quickly through the pages, as I waited for my bus. The crispy October air chapped my lips as the cars passed by. The first page, second page, third, and so on. Nothing. It was not until page 103 that I found it. Page 103. That’s what my career had equaled up to.
Seven minutes later my bus got there, as I’d finished reading the piece. I don’t even know why I was reading it in the first place, because I’d read it over and over and over dozens of times for the past three months. Why did I feel the need to read it again? Maybe just to see if it really was my words. Far different than most people, I read things before looking at pictures. I guess I was just programmed that way from when I was a child. I was a writer when I was eight years old. And I’m a writer now. But the pictures. The pictures my god. I couldn’t even believe it. While I’d read the words, this was when it hit me. That’s all mine. That’s me. What did I do to deserve this?
Just started tracking my username, and about half of the posts have to do with Tom Milsom.
I’m literally going to cry because Abby is one of the most adorable and wonderful people in the world and I will throw up on if you’re mean to her.
Actually, just everyone stop being mean to each other.
“I wish i could bake a cake made out of rainbows and smiles, and we could all eat it and be happy.”