Gina Clingan

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.

I rebuild your confidence. You recover. And suddenly, I stop hearing from you.

The truth is, I don’t listen to his music through the ears of a woman. I hear it with the heart of an artist and the mind of a writer.