Gina Clingan

The neighbor’s bedroom is on the other side of the wall, right next to mine. Already, I can hear him screaming at her.

“Perhaps this is silly, but I feel an obligation to you that I write this. I’ve been thinking of you a lot for the past couple weeks, and there are some things that I think you need to know. If I were you, I would want to know.”

You will always carry your loved ones with you.

You should feel safe with your own boyfriend. He should use his fingers to lift your chin and wipe away your tears, not to pull triggers or point at you when bad things happen.

They don’t hug when they say goodbye.

There was a time when I couldn’t imagine myself waking up on a Sunday morning to anyone but you.

Hold on, you beautiful weirdos. The real world outside of that place is just waiting for you.

I mean, let’s be honest. Norman Reedus’s existence is just poetry waiting to happen. Am I right?

I tell you to take me home.

You know that as long as you are alive, a piece of them is, too.

Last year, when I felt the beginning of my all-too-familiar seasonal depression trying to make its way into my home like an uninvited distant relative, I decided something needed to change. So, I just said “fuck it.” I threw open my door and invited that bitch in to make some Christmas cookies.

Thank you for bubbles and the way that they remind us of the fragility of the universe — how everything can be gone in an instant.