A stock photo. But somehow, even on a blue-collar income, my thirty-something father always managed to give his family of four an annual beach vacation. Then there’s me, his thirty-something daughter, occasionally too cash-strapped even to book a bunk in a hostel dorm. (Photo: Pixabay)

A Millennial Reckons with the Grit She Doesn’t Have

Or, my nostalgia for low-density polyethylene, and the struggle for daily bread

I’ve been writing this thing about letting the senses reconnect us with our emotions, and there’s a part that I can’t write without bawling. It’s just a childhood memory of being loved very much, combined with the adult understanding in hindsight of how much my father was sacrificing at the time. He worked horrendous jobs through most of my life, and the jobs he had when my brother and I were growing up were especially brutal.


Love, sex, dreams, soul, adventure, healing, feeling. I kinda experience life as magical.

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