I could spend a lot of time setting this up, but I won’t.
Humans are storytelling animals. I certainly like to tell myself stories, and more often than not, they’re all just fancied tragedies. One of the prevailing ones is a narrative of failure. Certain situations summon this mean, inner narrator, and almost without me having to do anything, the story begins. It’s a tale I’ve told myself for a very long time, and it always ends with me feeling like I’ve been through an existential meat grinder. Such was the case on the day I lugged myself into the domesticated hell of Katy, Texas. Continue reading