Category Archives: on growing up


I have got some awesome news. After a good two years hosted at, Well Begun Is Half-Done is moving to

Of course, being me, I have to make every ending significant and sentimental. This is where I learned how to blog, and it’s been a great two years. I think the most important thing I’ve gained has been the self-assurance. Whenever I begin doubting myself, I only have to think back to the encouraging things and flattering complements you all have given me because of this blog.

It’s important to note I’m not actually going anywhere. My new site looks exactly the same as this one; I just have more freedom to design my page, which I will take advantage of when I have a bit more time. Also, it’s just pretty fancy to have my own domain name.

This is my last post on I’m excited for new beginnings! Come with me!

See you on the web.


meeting ira glass

[I wish I knew the origin of this image]

I once met Ira Glass. I know, how could I have met my hero and not even blog about it? Well, here’s how: I got back to Athens that Sunday and the boy I was seeing at the time very politely bought me coffee and soundly broke up with me in the most romantic spot on campus.  And apparently I had caught a stomach bug over the weekend, because I spent the next 20 hours throwing up absolutely everything inside of me.

This happened back in October. Understandably I just couldn’t get to this story intantly, but gosh, couldn’t I have squeezed some time in to talk about it before? Like over Christmas break? The answer is yes. I definitely could have found the time to write about how amazing it was to meet my idol. I could have found the time to write about how it felt to shake his hand and speak to him — how it felt to know that words from my brain were reaching his brain and he was responding to them! I think these are things only a true fangirl could imagine.

But this blog should be the place where I tell the truth, or at least most of it. And the real truth is that I didn’t want to write a long post on how it felt to meet Ira Glass. Truthfully, it was amazing. I consider it one of the best three nights of my life. But if I had blogged about how he looked older in person than I imagined, I believed I would have just become one of the crowd of 150 or so in the auditorium that night.

Of course there were other people there. And how could I have been his only huge fan? He is a celebrity, an innovator, a big name in journalism — especially for those who are trying to breathe life into their dying, adjective-less newspaper stories that no one wants to read. He is the guy who made things interesting.

[Ira on left, age 20]

There was a journalism class from Augusta State University in the audience that night. He came out after his presentation to answer questions specifically for that class. I hung around the back, pretending to be in the class, too. They were quick to pick his brains on the journalism industry purely because of his position as an established name in the field. I watched as hands went up and students asked again and again for advice on how to be professional journalists. They were all so self-serving. After he gave his email address to one person with an interesting story idea, everyone swarmed, trying to get his email for themselves. Eventually, he told them to just pitch stories to the TAL website.

“Why do you need my email?” he asked.

Well. No one could say. None of us had good story ideas. Not even the guy running for mayor in Macon. He was just trying to get free publicity by an adorable radio softie who could not care less about small-town Georgia politics. Unless the story said something greater about the human condition.

The thing is, everyone in that little crowd was trying so hard to one-up the person before them. They each wanted to be remembered for being the funny one, the clever one, and or the promising one. Because Ira is just the guy who could appreciate a diamond in the rough, like so many of these people felt they were.

Yeah, me too.

When it was finally my turn to meet him and to talk to him, all  I could say was, “I’m Alex. I go to UGA. I want to be you when I grow up.”

He smiled, and he said, “You mean you want to do something like this?”

I looked at the stage behind him where they were cleaning up back, pulling the curtain away and revealing wires and other mechanical-looking things that made the show as magical as it was.

“No,” I told him. “I want to be you. I have that mug, that TAL mug, with you and with the robot host on it. I want to be the robot.”

(Here’s the mug, in case you were wondering.)

He seemed flattered. Or tickled at least that I’d say a silly thing like that. He shook my hand, saying, “Well it’s great to meet you.”

We took a picture together. And then I walked out, my hands shaking.

I’ll admit I was slightly bothered by the girl who held a worn copy of his Radio: An Illustrated Guide. She said she had produced some audio projects on her own through Transom. She hung behind everyone, clearly trying to save herself for his last impression.

Well I can’t go through life worrying about the girl who might be more prepared than I am to meet Ira Glass — the girl who thought to bring her copy of his book so he knew she had been reading it. My only comfort can come from knowing how I felt when he spoke to us about storytelling.

As I sat in the dark auditorium listening to his voice from a few feet away, I knew we were made of the same stuff.

how i survived new years-

Happy 2012, everyone! This new year marks the beginning of my second calendar year inhabiting this lovely corner of the internet. I’ll admit I’ve been a bit awol lately, but I’ll have you know that every day I go without posting on my blog is a day that I am tormented by a little nagging child tugging on the hem of my dress whispering, “Alex. Alex! Remember me? Why don’t you play with me more?”

I’ll spare you my WordPress “2011 in Review” analytics because they’re just plain depressing.

So hi. I am giving you some attention. You all know how I feel about New Years so I’ll just skip over that rant. This year though, anticipating the not-so-sudden bought of depression that was sure to rear its head in my quite little life, I decided to avoid the concept of New Years altogether.  I admit it was rather difficult because the radio station would incessantly play an obnoxious advertisement for the “biggest party in Hawaii” at the Aloha Tower — even though LMFAO songs were playing behind the guy screaming this at me, both of which are absolute repellant.

Since I was pretending it wasn’t New Years Eve, I didn’t even try the annual logic-war with my mom in which I try to persuade her to allow me out just until midnight so I wouldn’t feel like I am missing out on anything important. Nope, this year I stayed home and pretended nothing was happening. Things went on that night, I’m sure. I have the text messages in my phone to prove it. But I’d imagine the events were probably akin to that LMFAO CRAZY PARTY ALOHA TOWER advertisement. Headache.

Here’s what I did instead:

I finished this book-

Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly by Anthony Bourdain

I learned never to eat Sunday buffets and to always be nice to your waiters. And your chefs. And basically everyone in the food industry.

I made cupcakes-

Chocolate with mint marshmallow creme frosting. Recipe found here (#8). They were delicious.

I knit a scarf-

(loving that color)

Actually, the lighting in my room made the picture turn out funny. Trust me, it’s a nice color.

I watched Mean Girls-

(Tumblr really, really loves this movie, by the way.)

I had a productive not-New Years Eve and went to bed at 10. I’m actually a grandma.

But on the bright side, there was no sadness and no disappointment, which is more than I can say for the majority of New Years Eves I have had.

for the tenth time:

It’s Thanksgiving, and I have spent this week in Maui at the Ritz-Carlton Kapalua hotel, and let me tell you, the word, “ritzy” found its root in this hotel. I have seen restaurants where the night’s special was a $45 glass of Dom Perignon champagne. $45 would be my week’s foot budget back in Athens. I’ve seen bottles of water for four dollars and I have seen on-demand movies that cost $13. Without tax.

And what have I gained from this week? (Other than it’s fun to pretend to be a movie star for a week, of course.) I’ve mostly gained a perspective on how the other half of the world lives. Well, maybe not the other half. Maybe more like the one percent. Ha ha.

But in all seriousness, I’ve seen nice things that cost more than I have ever seen things cost before, but seeing all of these wealthy people does make me wonder about my own life’s plans. I worry pretty frequently about my future, mostly because my major doesn’t point to a career at all, unless I want to be the bald man with bad teeth on the History Channel or a sweet old lonely docent at a stuffy museum.

I have women’s studies in Sanford Hall, which is a part of the business school at UGA. I’ve always seen my class as a safe haven from all of the depressed business majors in the classrooms surrounding my own, and I would always have a private laugh at those poor people who have sold their souls; who have already given up on the light and the beauty in this world for one color: green.

At the same time I do worry, and quite frequently, about what I’m actually going to do when I graduate. Yes, I’ll have a house this summer and I’ll live in that house for two years until I graduate college but then what? I can’t imagine a time when I will be able to pay my own rent, because I can’t imagine having a job that I love that will pay me enough to be self-sufficient. Everything is so competitive these days. How can I possibly beat out those people who are doing everything right? And so I wonder whether the next best thing is to go on graduate school, to stay in this safe college world forever, where I can at least live in this naïve bubble of idealism for a bit longer.

Well. What do I do? I’ll be honest here, my standard of success is not being able to comfortably stay at a Ritz-Carlton resort and shrug off a $45 glass of champagne. All I want from life is to never stop learning, and to never live in a stagnate environment in which the people around me are content or have given up. Maybe that’s the college student in me talking. But I think I’ve always been able to tell the difference between those who are content running the same circle for the rest of their lives, and those who thrive on constantly shifting states. Those are the kinds of people who look for new ways to create and bring light to their lives and those are the kinds of people I have always found most interesting.

So yes, financially, all I want is the freedom to learn forever.  I don’t need lots of things and I don’t need to take fancy trips like this. So how much is that?

Luckily, I already have a fantastic base and people who support me. I can’t imagine that after thinking these things and writing them down like this I could work backwards from here to complacency. I am thankful for that.

If anyone has any answers or any insight into the things going through my mind, I’d be so glad to listen. I hate losing sleep.

#1 — how harry potter defined the direction of my life.

This post is part of a big project I am starting, which I’m hoping to complete in the next year. I’m open to any stylistic criticisms for these. 

The first time I had ever heard of Harry Potter was in the third grade. There was a new girl in my class at St. Michael’s that year named Madeline Dahl. If I couldn’t tell from her white skin that she was a military child like me, then I realized when our moms started a carpool to and from school. Madeline was exceptionally good at imitating accents, and recently, her favorite thing to say was “Expelliarmus!’ Which, apparently, was from this Harry Potter book.

Mom took me to the PX one day after school and I made a beeline for the book section while she filled her basket with whatever she had come for. That day, a wire shelf held a display of the first four Harry Potter books. As I stood there in my St. Michael’s uniform, my life changed. I had never given Harry Potter much thought but that day, for some reason, I decided it might be worth a shot to pick up one of these books.

When I got home I held the book in my hand and wondered what the story could be about. Reading the first few lines, I felt as if I were being inducted into a secret club of those who know — those who understand, who have read, and who love.

The first chapter was slow, but gradually the story drew me in and I became infatuated with the skinny boy with glasses who didn’t seem to fit in anywhere. I began to stay up late at night reading and wake up early with only one thing on my mind.  I felt smart when I pulled the hefty books out of my backpack at school when we had free reading time after lunch and recess. Every moment was delicious.

Since this was 2002, only the first four books in the series had been written. I devoured each one quickly and then had to wait patiently for the next one to be released. In that time, I pacified my anxious mind by learning to use the Internet.

Our house on Schofield Barracks had one computer in the very back room. The desktop sat on a big, official-looking wooden desk for which we had no better location. It had squeaky drawers with gold handles that I would keep my floppy disks in when I brought them home from computer class at school. I liked to spin around in the leather chair with its armrests, my feet dangling in the air. To my memory, the room was always dark and cool, so it became my new favorite hide out – and I liked hide outs. There, I would play with my dolls for hours, creating elaborate narratives for each character that would consume an entire afternoon.

But sometimes I would power up the ancient desktop and explore this new world inside that bright screen, which was often the room’s main source of light. I had learned to use Google in computer class at school, so I typed in the name of the woman who wrote Harry Potter, one letter at a time.

J. K. Rowling. There wasn’t much online at the time, but I did find the title of a biography on her, written by Marc Shapiro entitled “J.K. Rowling: The Wizard Behind Harry Potter.” I found the book at Borders and read it over and over again. I had never considered the woman behind the story before, but now it amazed me: she had created the world I had fallen in love with. The biography told of her lonely childhood when she had to switch schools and make all new friends. She came up with stories to tell the girls at her school and that was how she made friends. I felt connected to this little girl because I had had to move to a new school and I would likely have to do it again in the future, although I tried my best to put that thought out of my mind.

Before I finished the biography on J. K. Rowling, I resolved to become the creator of something equally as beautiful. I had a purple, hardcover Harry Potter notebook, the kind you could buy at the Scholastic book fairs that toured elementary schools around the country. The lined pages were blank, and that excited me.

I gathered up some pens and pencils from my pencil box and, inspired Harry Potter’s under-the-stairs living space, I made myself a little writing niche in the cupboard of my bathroom. I brought a pillow and a blanket from my bed and I shut the door of the cupboard, hiding out for hours. I must have brought a flashlight or something in with me; I don’t know how else I would have been able to see.

What resulted in those many hours of solitude, locking myself away from the greedy fingers of my little sister, was a 20-page long beginning of a novel – Harry Potter fan fiction, to be precise. It was a story about Harry’s long lost cousin, who attended another wizard school. I focused a lot on her appearance; I felt as if that was the only concrete description I could create of a person that would solidify their existence as a legitimate character in a piece of work.

After a particularly spirited writing frenzy, I sat on the couch in the living room completely spent from the passion I had just put my young mind through. My mom looked over my happy smile as I curled on the sofa cradling the purple notebook as if it were the most precious possession I owned — because at that time, it was. Although I never finished the story, I was proud of the work I had done. I fanned the worn pages over and over again, and I ran my fingers over the indentions on the backs of pages. This was the first time I realized that something material could come from the silly things that ran through my head and I got such satisfaction from the tangible evidence.

I always promised myself I would come back to that story because I saw some real promise in those twenty pages. But the words were written in pencil and the plot was based on a world someone else had imagined. I hadn’t yet realized — or maybe I didn’t want to admit it to myself — that the story was never to go anywhere further than the first twenty pages of my purple Harry Potter notebook. The final three Harry Potter books and film versions of all seven would be released over the next nine years. Madeline would move away the next year and so would I. I would buy new notebooks and pens and I would grow another six inches, but the desire to create would remain inside me, causing my fingers to itch routinely for the pen or for a willing keyboard.

on being weird:

I do firmly believe that each of us has an animal in our bellies, gnawing at our insides and trying desperately to get out. I guess that’s what you’d call passion, but the animal is the image I get when I’m thinking of how it feels.

My animal has always been pretty forceful and well, ridiculous. In elementary school my friends loved it, but as I got older and didn’t mature out of my silliness, I began to feel self-conscious of it. After a while, it wasn’t as much fun to be the subject of confused looks because, as much as I hated to admit it, I did care what people thought, and I knew what they were thinking when I ran off laughing after yelling something strange in their face. Crazy.

They didn’t understand me, and while I felt I was truly expressing the animal inside my belly by doing these things, I couldn’t help but wish it had something a little more normal to say.

I was watching Mary Poppins today, and when Dick Van Dyke was making ridiculous faces and singing his “It’s a Jolly Holiday with Mary” song, something finally clicked. Mary Poppins was the first real-people movie I ever watched, I remember, and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was a close second, which also stars Dick Van Dyke. I was raised on this brand of humor – the goofy, the funny faces, and the simple laughs – and so this is what I return to, always. Always. I feel like I’ve gotten it from my dad, the compulsion to add a bit of comic relief to every remotely mundane, tense, or awkward situation. I see him do it all the time and I find myself doing it too. I feel like the only explanation is that we simply love to laugh. Our last name is Laughlin, for goodness sake. Since I am of the Dick Van Dyke camp of humor, I think that often a lot of what I do and what I find funny is lost on the people around me. It happened throughout middle and high school – no matter how hard I tried to control that beast in my belly, I would eventually relent and it would claw its way out with its silly faces and corny jokes, making the coolest kids feel uncomfortable and superior, once again.

I’ve found that the people I love the most are the ones who love that beast, who find it endearing. I think that in a way, I’ve had it tough because even if I would find someone who appreciates it, I would have to move away and start over again. Needless to say a lot of my jokes hit the floor with a deafening clang. Whatever guys, I think I’m hilarious.

BUT, I was thinking today that for the first time in…I don’t know, seven years, I feel as if I am in the exact right place. Last night affirmed that – it was my sorority’s semi-formal, and we all met up at a friend’s apartment beforehand. I walked in and everyone looked back at me, and there wasn’t a single face in that room that I didn’t love. So yes, I could hop around the room in my pretty dress with a blanket wrapped around my waist because I really, really wanted to sit cross-legged. Everywhere.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I feel lucky. I feel happy. I love that you all can appreciate what I’m doing here, whether it’s playing banjo in the hallway without pants on or flapping my coat sleeves yelling, “I’m an Alex-Bird!” Because by god, that’s what’s inside of me. And if I can find someone who loves that, well, high fives all around.


In advance, I apologize to my tumblr followers reading this — it’s kind of a watered- down repeat of my post from last week. 

My birthday is on Thursday — I’m turning 20! I figured I’d write out my birthday post tonight since I don’t have much going on. There’s no telling what it’ll be like on Thursday down in St. Simons. Every year I write a list of the things I’d done in the last year that I never thought I would ever do. Things that I couldn’t have even predicted doing. It’s usually in my journal but I figured I could post it to the internet this year, just for fun. It’s kind of nice to look back on the things I’ve done and try to imagine what the next year will be like, only to know for sure that my expectations will be succeeded.

On the night I turned 19, I was at Snelling with my current roommate, Margaret, freaking out about aging. If I could, I would write myself a letter from the future saying that everything would be okay. That it would be great — there’s nothing to worry about. Just look at all the great things you’ll do.

  • Get a Kindle. Have a hard time accepting that the age of books might be over. Continue buying used books off of amazon.
  • Date a boy for six months who is kind of…wrong for you. Realize this one night at a party and fall apart. It will be okay, I swear. You learned a lot from that.
  • Get a little sister in the sorority during your freshman year. Surprise!
  • Fall in love with women’s studies during your intro class spring semester.
  • Spend six weeks in Hawaii over the summer — beach days, beach nights, sushi, summer drives, good music, s’mores. Perfection.
  • Spend two of those weeks with your best friend. Reunite after five years and get a speeding ticket with her. Introduce her to your childhood home.
  • Spend six weeks in Athens. Become crazily independent because you have to, with no car. Meet people, work a job with awful hours, and cook great food.
  • Ride your bike up Lumpkin. That’s a tough hill but one day you just decided to do it, and you did.
  • Decide to run a half marathon. Buy new running shoes and run every day for the next 13 weeks. Well, almost every day. Sort of. I ran almost 200 miles.
  • Move into Pi Beta Phi. Meet some amazing, amazing people there.
  • Take the diversity beat for the newspaper. Write 24 stories in your first two months back. Makes tons of money. Make friends on staff. Burn out a little bit.
  • Go see Bright Eyes at the Georgia Theatre instead of going to the Braves Date Night. Don’t regret it for a single moment.
  • Get an amazing new job. Quit the stinky sandwich job.
  • MEET IRA GLASS. Shake his hand. Tell him you want to be the robot on the coffee mug. Maybe he’ll remember me. HAHA, I flatter myself.
  • Go house shopping — Adventures in Adulthood Part One of 193027.
  • Figure out what you need to do with the next two and a half years. I don’t want to be any more specific than that, right now. Just know that I have some pretty awesome plans for myself.
  • Realize, after twenty years, that your mom is actually a spectacular woman.
  • Become okay with turning 20. Look forward to it, even. That’s a pretty significant change from last year when turning 19 was a huge crisis.
  • Come to terms with who you were in high school, what you wanted in high school, and who you are now. Try to reconcile the differences between who you are and who you were. Maybe some things can carry over.
  • Run a half marathon! (Today!)
There you have it. My nineteenth year. Sorry I don’t have pictures. I probably have pictures to document all of these but I don’t have the time nor the willpower to search through my external hard drive for everything. It’s been a great year.

about mothers,

Going through a lot lately. I’m not sure exactly how focused or professional this post is going to be, so please just bear with me while I get all of this out.

I’m house shopping with my friends for next year already. Since I don’t have a car, our range of houses is pretty limited, but my mom has been trying to work out how to find me an affordable car in the next few months so I can live in the beautiful, brand new house with a rent of $350 a month. I sat in my bed just now, trying to learn how to say refrigerator in Korean and I was overwhelmed all of a sudden. I couldn’t keep it in. My mom is giving up so much just so I can live comfortably. My sister is giving up so much without even realizing it. How is it even fair?

When I say she’s given everything to me, I mean everything. At a time when most women are adventuring, building their lives and careers, she spent her twenties being my mother. She always made sure there was another book waiting for me. There was always another museum to go to, another park, another movie to spark my curiosity in the world. She invested all of herself in me. It’s been a solid five months since I’ve been home and I want nothing more than to crawl into her cool bed and smell her sweet, clean smell. It’s a safe place I’ve fled to on countless nights when the monsters in the dark were too ominous and real for me to face alone in my bed.

I wonder at what point we don’t need those safe places anymore?

on a saturday night,

I wandered into a thrift store today on a whim and picked up Mona Lisa Smile. I’m not going to lie, I only grabbed it because I saw the words “art history” on the back and Julia Roberts, Kirsten Dunst, and Maggie Gyllenhaal on the front. It was a beautiful movie with overtly feminist themes that I completely did not expect. But of course, I’m not complaining. It dealt with the idea that marriage and motherhood with both lead to death, an idea I’ve often struggled with. I’ve seen marriage as the death of my career, my creativity, my freedom, and my happiness. What the movie didn’t pay enough attention to, in my opinion, is the third possibility in the debate between family and professional life, which is the marriage of the two. I’d like to think that if I were to ever get married and have children, I would be able to maintain my career and my sanity. I think I’m just selfish enough for that. But ultimately, I think it makes you a better mother in the end if all of your efforts and happiness do not rest upon the success or failure of these little people with your eyes and your husband’s mannerisms. Anyway, I won’t talk your head off tonight about feminist approaches to having children.

I’ve had this one bottle of perfume for the last ten months — a boy bought it for me as a gift and so now whenever I spray it on I get flashbacks. That whole smell–>memory thing is so, so real. So I’d rather not relive those memories every morning. I went to a store downtown this afternoon and picked up a new bottle of perfume and had it gift-wrapped for myself. Happy birthday, to me? I still have two weeks, but I was in a self-indulgent mood today. Now that I’ve finished my movie and had my dinner, I’m just in the mood to sit in my bed for the rest of the night, read my books (Baby Love and Two Wrongs Make a Vice) and listen to music that was recorded before my parents were born.

It’s a nice night to spend with myself.

well, on the bright side-

A few weeks ago, my news editor for the paper sent out a story idea to the staff — it was about something the LA Times called “generation vexed,” which described my generation’s pessimistic attitude toward the future. Here’s the link to the story. I picked up the story, figuring my version would roughly follow the same outline as that one, just on a smaller scale. I mean, it can’t be hard to find someone who hates their major, right?

I searched in vain all over this campus. I asked everyone I could, but the closest I got was a boy who had hated his biology major but changed it a year ago to pursue a career in filmmaking. The art and music majors were all over the place though — and they were so confident and optimistic about their futures. One art major admitted that he didn’t have an exact plan for his future but he figured it would work out. But who really has an exact plan? It’s silly to plan out the little details specifically so far in advance anyway.

Here’s the best part. I interviewed a man who works at the University Career Center and he could not stress enough how important he thought it was for students to pick majors they are passionate about. His main point was that people will be more productive in society if they all follow their passions, because everyone is passionate about something. It reminded me of a Howard Thurman quote: “Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

At the end of my interview with him, this man blamed the media for spreading this general attitude of fear into college students that causes them to choose lives they aren’t in love with just for money. I was transcribing the interviews in bed on the morning my story was due, and I stopped for just a moment to really think about what he said.

By writing my story, I was becoming that powerful voice of the media that plants the seeds of thought into readers, that voice that can slowly but surely facilitate public opinion — or maybe I’m just flattering myself. As much as I had wanted to find a depressed artist trapped in the vacuous shell of a business major, they were nowhere to be found. And I realized that even trying to write that story was a depressing prospect — it would have been unhelpful and depressing to everyone who read it. So I decided to change the story to focus on the power young people have to define their own lives because I felt like I had the responsibility to show a more hopeful side to the story. Suffice it to say I’m obsessed with the final result.

How appropriate is it then, that during this same weekend, I made the decision to quit my  job at Larry’s Giant Subs? It began with a seed my mom planted in my head on Friday — she told me that if I am so stressed and busy, then I could quit my job to focus on more productive things, like writing more stories for the paper and studying for all of my classes. Over the weekend that idea grew so quickly, like a vine spreading to and infecting every productive corner of my mind. On Monday, I gave my manager my two weeks’ notice and I am now counting down the shifts I have left as a sandwich slave.

I struggled with my decision a little bit at first. I have a really hard time not being constantly busy, which can be at once a blessing and a curse. I just love feeling productive — there were weeks in high school when I would go and go and go and then on Friday night I would pass out at seven o’clock and sleep for 14 hours straight. I lived for that recuperation. But I talked with most of my friends and with my parents, and my dad said something that really stuck; he said, “Jobs don’t have to suck, Alex.” That’s it. And I guess that’s an idea that I’ve got to learn to accept. I could have a job that I’m obsessed with, and the best way to do that is to consciously take every step forward in the direction that brings me closer to my ultimate goal. And that goal, do I even need to go into that? No, I think not.

Anyway. I’ll post the link to my story once it’s published on Thursday. Counting down three more shifts at Larry’s and until total liberation. Yahtzee!