A journal entry from March 2018.
My mom told me about a dream she had once, where she was hugging the moon. The moon, she said, was warm and bright. She described being cheek-to-cheek, wrapped in the glow of a lunar embrace, overwhelmed by pure contentment and peace.
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This time last Thanksgiving, I was having difficulty finding anything to be thankful for. Like many of my friends, I was drowning under the weight of navigating a holiday table set with potential political landmines. In other words, I was set to have a good ol “Pussy Grabbin” time while stuffing my face full of turkey, green beans, and “Make America Great Again” bullshit.
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