Good... And Good for You

on sunday, i taught my niece/”rey” about the force. and how to properly use it when you’re losing your lightsaber battle with your aunt/” dark vader”. and how to pretend to get your hand cut off at the climax of the light saber battle. ...this is the first time in my life that my biological clock has ever ticked.

walking out, after going to see an opera... familiar voice: hey, kat. i turn around and see a guy i went to high school with. me: oh, hey there! how've you been for the last twenty years? him: pretty good. you? me: same... well. see ya. him: bye. and we both went our separate ways. i feel like this is the ideal high school reunion scenario.

on or before the third sentence of my second interaction with every person ever, i will inevitably get asked, “ how tall are you?” or “how tall are you?” or the super casual, “so how tall are you anyways?” it’s a thing. i’m so not offended when people ask, it's just that i get asked it a lot. like, a lot. (i do get a little bit offended when people make me stand back-to-back with them. and i get super annoyed when someone asks how tall i am and then doesn’t believe my answer. come on, guy. i don’t somehow think that taking an inch off my height will suddenly make you think i’m a beautiful, delicate flower.) i guess i just don’t understand why people need a quantifiable height. they need my espn stats. they need a concrete number. i’ve never been on the other side of it that i can think of. i don’t think that i ask people their exact height or weight or age or ethnic heritage, but maybe i do and i just don’t realize it. i guess- if i’m being honest about why i’m ...