All life is suffering

One morning I woke up to find one of my kids heading out of the house with a fishing net. He briefly noted that he was going outside to catch butterflies. I thought this was really sweet–and then this exchange happened:

Me: “Oh cool, you’re catching butterflies.”

Paul: “Yeah, we’re gonna kill them later with bb guns.”

Raising boys is __________.

They don’t dial 911. Home protected by Red Ryder BB Guns.

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scraps

A series of writing snippets taken from my prodigious archive of materials (journals, letters, notes, etc)–interesting, funny, and otherwise.

Enjoy. I spared you the freaking poetry.

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Primary source: Allison’s journal

1/27/1994

Listening to that awesome Steven Stills tune “Everybody I Love You” on the bus at 6:30 this morning. Dark. Realized Steve was not on a bus when he wrote it.

2/3/1994

(background note: I pierced my nose in 1994)

Dad has pointed out for the 30th time that he’s seen quite a few lesbians AND black women with nose rings. I told him the truth — I’m a black lesbian.

9/2/1995

(background note: written at camp)

Dad just shot me with a BB gun and I freaked. Left and came back. Now he’s gone and it’s nice. My hammock rules. As does Neil Young.

4/28/1997

(background note: I am deathly afraid of flying)

Sitting my butt down in the airport–pre-flight to Phoenix. A priest is waiting to board the same flight. I’m definitely OK. It’s when there’s a nun you have to worry.