I was born via emergency c-section. After a long and unsuccessful labor, my mom remembers watching the monitor as my heart rate slowed with each of her fruitless contractions. Back in those days (or at least in my mom’s case) the OBGYN went whole-hog knock the mama unconscious for c-section.
Coming out is a thing easier said than done. I mean, not for lack of trying or anything. After a bout of nervous farts and sweaty pits, I decided to attend a blogging convention. I’m talking endless fantasies of walking into some convention center with the words ANNE NAHM ironed
Plans for Thanksgiving at my house snowballed last week, pretty much like snowballs do – fast and furious, going downhill quick. Then melted, much like they do in Hell. The nicest part about The Cool Thing is that I’m now afforded a certain grace for my introverted, socially awkward behavior.
I’m coming out because of my dad. It took me a few days to see that, but I’ll cop to it now that I do. Of all the things he could be trying to teach me as an adult (Hey, lose some weight/treat your body better, or stay current on
He should miss me. He should miss me. He should miss me. He should miss me. If my father loved me, he should miss me. That he won’t is hard to accept. It’s disturbing the way magic tricks sometimes are, the ones that make you question the inside as much