2026-04-19
I love our little sundays. Quiet as church, gay as fuck.
Good Morning. It is Sunday, 2026-04-19.
This year doesn’t feel like it ever really started. Ah well.
Just did the paperwork dance for the week. In the dark, having woken up from a HORRIBLE nightmare. I was on a camping trip, and REDACTED.
Yesterday was lovely. Breakfast with the besty, and time with the new cat. I’m lucky to be alive, I guess, even if I am feeling a little glum.
2026-04-18. Missing Graye.
iPad homescreen. Couch computer.
Did you know that you have access to every newspaper in the world on your iPad through your public library? I didn’t until today. Sunday New York Times? The New Yorker? The economist??? I know what I’m doing Sunday mornings over bagels now.
Preparing for the small ereader. Reatricting to these books. A psalter.
I never regret swimming.
I think I’m shadow banned on Instagram right now, so this is the only place I’m posting poems for a bit.
Seeing The Christophers. I am the youngest person here by far, except the other trans woman, who smiled when she took my ticket.
