Temperamental idealists are built to tango with disappointing realities.

Something happens. An event occurs. The story structure begins.

We are completely OK with our evasive ways and our “the experience is the prize” disposition.

What a lovely gift for me to impose on humanity, no?

Unjaded and unchanged.

Treasure maps, a diary with instructions on how to find the holy grail, and legal documents that address your wishes.

Salt rocks and llamas and pill cases, oh my!

I’m not gatekeeping the Goldfish crackers.

Heaven knows it can’t be worse than cuddling with a watermelon.

Very few places make me (or anyone) feel as squirmy as a mass transit station. It’s the epitome of being “matter out of place.”

The concept of “out with the old, in with the new” isn’t a Buzzfeed list I subscribe to.

High thoughts, but grief-specific. Emotionally laden, but with a hint of space cadet.

Well, we do know a lot of dead people. Guess the gang’s all here.

We do not “get through” grief, we learn to exist in the same space with it.

Game of Thrones left me feeling meh. I don’t know how Jim and Pam are doing. Barbie brings me to tears. And the Lions lost on Thanksgiving. Endings are the worst.

Oh, by the way, hi, I’m Tricia. My brother has been dead for three-and-a-half years and I’m still not fine.

De-griefing. It’s part of the process.

Exceptional actions in the face of insurmountable loss.

Meet your new best friends: Guilt & Shame

The season of comfort and joy can quickly become the season of “Is-it-January-yet?”