Digging up old stuff is fun. I actually can't bring myself to watch this video anymore, for numerous reasons, but in reading the poem, I found it to be a healthy reminder of how far I come since my near-suicide. This was the second or third week of full-lockdown in 2020. 20 fucking 20. Big thank you to Matthew Corozine for pushing me to explore writing more poetry. Video below. Enjoy. Being a man That’s open to interpretation, a term, a myth That has taken on a different mean

Coming out of a depressive episode is confusing as fuck. For me, wallowing is a form of complacency. There's a certain acceptance I begin to feel when I'm stinky and in bed all the time. Is it relaxing? Maybe? I don't think so. The viscous thoughts that come with depression are not relaxing. But there is a certain bodily comfort in going, "well, I'm not going to spend any of my awake time with my feet on the floor today, so I may as well do things that make me feel safe and c

The television landscape is obsessed with bringing the old gang back together. For every excellent original series that graces our screen in this platinum age of the medium, there's older Ross and Rachel on the old couch, bearded Hogwarts kids perusing the reconstructed dining hall, and 3/4 of the Sex and the City gang holding up a mirror to what many of us never realized was kind of a problematic group to begin with. We looooooooove the comfort of seeing our old friends in t