"But what’s the half-life of any joy? At the end of our honeymoon, he dropped me off down the street from my house, brushed his mouth against my forehead and became a memory. My parents and sisters had already figured I was dead or kidnapped and I remember feeling bothered by how quickly their relief turned to anger. The hospital took me back, with conditions, after I invented a dying relative. And the soldier dissolved into a cold bath of mistakes I’d probably make again..."Read More
"It may have been misspelled on the official trail guide, but I'm gonna miss the "f" outta that (now) quintessential Boise music festival..."Read More