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Human Parts
A publication about humanity from Medium: yours, mine, and ours.

Work Life Balance

In Human Parts. More on Medium.

Lived Through This

I felt nothing. So I headed to my desk for another busy day of browsing online sales and waiting to die.

A folded “Female equals future” shirt, jeans with a phone in the back pocket, white canvas shoes, nail polish, and an iPad.
A folded “Female equals future” shirt, jeans with a phone in the back pocket, white canvas shoes, nail polish, and an iPad.

I was running two hours late to work on the day I figured out I was really, truly, finally about to get fired. The whole “two hours late” thing wasn’t, like, an eerie portent of doom or anything. I had been pushing my start time back later and later for months until I was here: waking up at 9:30 for a job that started at 9, then finally swanning into the office at 11, with big black sunglasses and a giant takeout coffee, like I was a glamorous drug addict rock star instead of a writer employed to churn out…

Do any of us know how to relax?

My aunt called me one cold, frosty February evening this year to catch up, and when I filled her in on everything that had been keeping me busy lately, she paused for a moment, then said, “Do you know how to relax? Did we miss teaching you that part when bringing you up?”

The life I described to her consisted of a full-time day job, a 20-hour-per-week evenings-and-weekends job, six weeks of upcoming contract work, and four weeks of upcoming out-of-town fieldwork. I told her (and myself) that I was excited about it. The truth was I was more excited…

Scary Tarot

Let go of hustle and embrace flow with the Ten of Wands

A weary figure bears a bundle of 10 rods as it moves down a dark road. In certain lights, it might appear that they are not a willing ferryman, but instead trapped within the poles. What is their final destination with this burden, I wonder?

Three writers’ faces are illuminated in iMac-blue. They type, then delete. Struggle, then push through. The three wend their way through a first draft, then a second, then a third. On the wall above them, amid movie posters and photographs, is a framed card.

In curving pink and gold, it reads:

She believed she could…

Two words. A one-dimensional view of my worth.

I am always telling stories.

Some are long and convoluted. Some collapse inward on themselves like a dying star, imploding into greatness. Some meander and peter out without ever really going anywhere. My stories are lived and earned, and sometimes stolen. There are funny stories, and sad stories, and other stories somewhere in between. Words that fill, and float, and beat out a story onto the page. Words for days, words for years. Words stretched through all of time, sweet and ready to be plucked.

And then there is another type of story. A story told to me and to…

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