A good friend once told me that the title "best friend" isn't any one person, but a tier. I can attest to that, and I am so grateful to be able to add Rina t...
A close friend of mine once told me that in Japan they call biracial people ダブる (Daburu), meaning they’re not two halves, but instead two wholes of something. Growing up I always felt like I was an imposter, never genuinely fitting in.
Each year (with the exception of the last), my town hosts its annual Fall Festival. It’s during the first full week of October, and lasts a full 7 days. Normally when I go with friends we eat to our hearts’ desires, avoid eye contact with aggressive carnies, and take photos in front of beautiful lights provided by the various carnival rides.
When I was a kid my mom would tell me ghost stories. It was a struggle for her to entertain me at times, but one thing that had always been consistent about me is my love for the macabre and things that give me the heebie jeebies.
My friend Gillian and I met at our job last year. Like most of my long lasting friendships, we bonded over our mutual love for horror films and cemeteries. Two weeks ago, she invited me to go to a women’s meetup in a local graveyard she and I love to frequent.
Much like Lydia Deetz, I myself am strange and unusual. My entire life I was always a little (a lot) more morbid and creepy than the average Joe. In elementary school I had a best friend that matched my energy, but eventually he moved away. The two of us were so fascinated by horror and death, perhaps because it seemed to follow us. Maybe it was the passing of our elderly relatives, or the passing of our young classmate.
Boy oh boy. Where do I even begin? Life with Arwyn has been a pure delight, but also an incredibly stressful string of events. In my naivety I assumed this journey with Arwyn would be smooth despite life’s general difficulties. Now I know to assume there will be smooth sailing with any living, breathing thing is foolish.
With the level of anxiousness that I feel, you would think that I am a new mom prepping for the day I’ll be bringing my newborn home from the hospital. I suppose I could contribute this extreme level of nesting to the fact that this will be the first pet that is 100% mine.
To love something so unconditionally is special, and for that very creature to love you back is a bond that doesn’t compare to anything else. For more than half of my life, I’ve always had a pet. Dog, cat, crab, gerbil, rabbit…you name it, I took care of one. Since the breakup, this entire year has been the longest I have gone without a pet. It’s been lonely.
It was 8 AM on the 10th of November. Shawn and I landed in Lisboa, Portugal a mere 8 hours earlier. We had nothing on the agenda except to make our way to our hostel close to the city centre. Our suitcases in hand, we rolled our way down the cobblestone streets to the nearest metro station.
Prior to arriving, I had hopes for a life changing experience. I didn’t foresee any prodigious, life altering events actually happening. I figured that at most the two of us would eat delicious food, see beautiful things, be humbled by the throes that often come with travel, and come back home with stories to tell. I was wrong.
All of that happened and then some.