The Brilliance of Resilience

Like any good queer, I've been thrust into astrology with increased passion. I blame memes. I am playfully (and not really) obsessed with the idea of my own Sagittarian nature, even if most rational people find Astrology's resurgence in popularity to be pointless and nauseating. Something that struck me about the idea of the Sagttiarian (if you've made it this far and hate astrology, please keep reading...if only because you love me and believe that I'll bury the lead like I always do and get to some "profound" statement) is their ability to express grim realities in blunt and honest ways in one breath while continuing to enjoy what life has to offer in another. Kind of like a, "we're fucked but it doesn't mean we can't go RIGHT NOW and get tacos out of this gas station," kind-of-way. Do we realize that the realities of the world don't necessarily negate all that it has to offer in the meantime? Or, is it the true addiction to freedom

You have done some good work, Dorothy. But, not enough people like you. I've been in 7852 conversations about who the best Golden Girl is, who is the favorite golden girl , who is the wisest Golden Girl, etc. So many say Dorothy Zbornak. They say it because Dorothy's wit is acerbic and smart. Being in the blow back of a Dorothy insult feels alive and the recipient is ready to create their own Dorothy: their own blow back, and their own piece of the cheesecake - even if just for a moment in time while resuming back to their Rose or their Blanche. But, no one actually likes  all of Dorothy. Dorothy is the last to have the date. Dorothy looks like Fess Parker. Dorothy is the one that has the fewest friends and the most painful stories about love, risk and vulnerability. Dorothy is the one that is the butt of the jokes about everything - but intellect and morality (except for sleeping with that married guy. Even Dorothy gets the blues). She is the subject of ridicule in

One of the many tasks that fall under the umbrella of my work responsibilities used to include sending files to K. K was a diminutive woman with cat photos and drawings in her cube. The files that went to K were labeled with her name over and over and over - her name becoming synonymous with her part of the process - the hole to kick the work to. I got to know K a little bit - brought her some Kombucha and chatted. She liked lavender. I remember K staring at me blankly when I openly wept at the work cafeteria's televisions blaring Hilary Clinton's concession speech. We didn't agree, but we still worked together well. K lost her job to an outsource but stayed on longer than the rest - she had institutional knowledge that wasn't respected, but respected enough to buy her time. She shared about what she'd do afterwards. It was a superficial conversation about gardening and resting. I knew that I'd likely never see her again.Two weeks ago, I found out that K d

I remember very vividly - a moment when I told two women at work, "Dreams are for rich people." It wasn't the ravings of an angry woman that was paid sixty cents on a man's dollar. It wasn't the depressed response of a sick brain. It is a commandment. It is how a pragmatic mind copes with the realities of the time while still striving for the most (to be the most) - at any given moment. As a child, I made up a story about my origins. A child that traveled seven-thousand miles via hot air balloon from India to Western Pennsylvania. Now, I am vividly authentic about what actually transpired through yesterday. I do my best to see these occurrences for what they are and not just how they made me feel while pairing them with the actualities of what my life can become as the person that I am now. That's mutable. That's nothing and everything. In the words of my therapist who heard it from a healer - it will all end badly. Meaning: we'll die. The peop