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When I was a kid, one of my favorite (age-appropriate and modern) books described a place as “a screen door town.” The explanation was that every time something happened, no matter how trivial or innocuous, every screen door up and down the street would open and slam shut twice in a ripple effect—once when the occupants came out to snoop, and again when, having discovered it was unimportant, they went back inside. Last year, Cold and I moved into “a lawnmower neighborhood”—meaning every day, there’s at least one person outside mowing somewhere on the block, and most days, their neighbors join in whether or not they need to mow, and the ripple travels further and further until everyone in earshot is mowing. Cold and I sleep during the day and we can only deal with the lawn very early or on his days off, so the constant mowing is a sore point. Well, earlier today, I heard the mowing start up again while I was trying to drudge through beta-reading a chapter from someone who might not have proofread first. As close as the mower sounded, I figured it must be that one neighbor who has an overpowered mower and an undersized lawn. I suffered through reading the same sentence half a dozen times, then stormed into the kitchen to get some tea and wait it out. When I heard Cold come through the door, I started ranting about “whatever asshole is mowing this time can kiss my ass” and a few things otherwise. Then I saw him and I froze. My husband was sweaty and covered in grass clippings. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Asshole. I mowed your lawn. Prepare to give me butt.”

Awhile back, someone on a random Reddit post suggested I might be neurodivergent. I’d only heard the term used for people with autism – yes, I live under a rock – so my initial response was disgruntlement. My husband, after all, is autistic, and I had a mental image of the time he met my prudish religious neighbor for the first time and made a joke about his dick; if we were both that awkward outwardly instead of just on the inside, we’d be a right mess. There was also a sidenote of, “shit, I’m even more fucked up than Cold, how dare this person compare him to me? He doesn’t deserve that insult!” indignance. Come to find out “neurodivergent” applies to several diagnoses and disabilities; it applies to most (any?) condition resulting from deviations in how the brain is wired...including mine. Apparently, I am neurodivergent. So is Cold. So many things make sense now. That Redditor was right and I had no idea. That said...I’ve been editing a chapter of my novel with Boney M.’s “Rasputin” playing on repeat for...uh...an hour? ...or three? Because it’s stuck in my head? Okay, so maybe there were signs. Maybe.

People love saying, “Love is blind.” I have to disagree. I think love is looking at someone, knowing that somewhere out there, a tree gave its all to ensure they have air to breathe, and feeling feel sorry for the tree…and knowing you’d burn a whole forest to the ground if a single tree took offense at supplying your idiot with oxygen. I love my husband. He’s an idjit, but he’s my idjit. I’d love him even if he had to be reminded to breathe.

Superman is now on that rather exclusive list of action movies whose best fight scene doesn't involve the main character. (The best fight being that between Mr. Terrific and Lex Luthor’s armored goons.) The only other examples I can immediately think of are both from the '80s: Total Recall, whose best fight scene is between Rachel Ticotin and Sharon Stone’s characters, and the James Bond movie The Living Daylights, which included an amazing fight between a random MI-6 agent and Necros, an assassin who strangles people with the wire from his Walkman.

Welp! Its official my old laptop died. The one I’ve kept since before college. Rip. The one I first started writing on here with. May you fly with the great Wifi in the sky.

R.I.P prince of darkness! Ozzy Osbourne