Last spring I ordered drug tests from Amazon.

Chris was acting funny, and I couldn’t figure out why. I’d ask him if he was doing drugs, and he would adamantly deny any drug use. It insulted him. It hurt his feelings I would even ask.

So I kept quiet, watched him with a suspicious eye, and carried on. Things would go back to normal–for weeks or a month–and then something would happen again to make me wonder what was wrong with him.

Why didn’t he remember our conversations at all?

Why do I always feel like I might catch him doing something wrong?

Why am I so suspicious?

Why is he randomly slurring his words?

I began to track the times I felt something was off. Making a note on my calendar when he would claim no memory of a conversation or event. When he would talk funny or say words wrong.

Last summer was on-and-off bad and then nothing. There was no pattern. No reason.

“Are you doing drugs?” I’d ask him.

“No,” he’d say with confidence.

“Are you drunk?”

“No!”

Back and forth, back and forth.

Sometimes I’d go a month or two, forgetting my concerns because nothing weird or bad was happening. Other times, it felt like he was constantly acting funny.

Last August (a year ago), I refused to let him drive us to our nephew’s birthday party because he was acting erratic and making me feel unsafe. He was furious at me for not letting him drive.

How dare I insult him like that. Nothing was wrong with him.

When we got to the birthday party, he sat in the car and sobbed. I was doing this to him. I was hurting him, insulting him, treating him like a baby.

I told him I was worried about him, and I wanted him to go see a doctor. Something had to be wrong–why couldn’t he see it?

This pattern–of Chris’ words and actions causing me concern and then things going back to normal and quiet–has been happening for a long time. I’ve written about it before, excusing his random memory lapses and weird quirks as permanent effects of hard drug use for years. Living with a recovering addict is hard because so many things aren’t normal anyway. But with Chris everything always had a reason, an explanation, a cause.

In March, he came home from church. It was Saturday night, he’d been at church since 1:00 PM and was tired. When he walked in the door, I immediately felt something was wrong. His eyes were unfocused and he was slurring his words.

“Are you on drugs?”

“No.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Something is wrong. You’re not acting right. I’m going to bed. But the next time this happens, I’m taking you to get a drug test. And if that comes back clean, I’m going to have them do a breathalyzer. And if that comes back negative, I’m taking you to the hospital to figure out what’s wrong because you’re not acting right and something is going on.”

All he said was “okay” and then we went to bed.

Things were quiet for a few months. I went off my anxiety meds, feeling less crazy, less suspicious. We didn’t fight as much, Chris was more present, less angry.

Then May 3rd happened.

(Just joining this series? Start here.)

I hated my husband.

Last fall, things were rough. I couldn’t look at him without anger and hatred. I was physically repulsed by him. No matter what he did or said, I found fault.

I couldn’t figure out what had changed, how we had gotten to this point, or how to fix it.

Something must be wrong with me, I thought. There was no other explanation.

As we readied for our tenth anniversary trip to New York City, I remember wondering if we should even go. I couldn’t hide the annoyance I felt around him and even going to a city I love without kids for five days didn’t sound enjoyable. I wondered if it was too late to cancel and how much money we’d lose.

September was the worst. I remember Chris saying, “I know you hate me…” and I didn’t try to correct him or refute him. I just let it hang in the air.

This happened at least twice that I remember.

Chris knew things were bad. I knew things were bad.

I prayed and prayed to have more patience, to see my husband through God’s eyes–with compassion and love and mercy–but I was coming up short.

Something was wrong with me.

We went to New York and had a good time. We came back and I went right back to hating my husband.

In November, I had my annual OBGYN appointment and after the exam, the nurse practitioner asked how I was feeling. I took one shaky breath and said, I need help. I’m moments away from divorcing my husband and killing my kids. I don’t even know what’s wrong, but I don’t feel right.

I hadn’t planned to mention this. It hadn’t crossed my mind, but the minute she asked me how I was, I lost all composure. I sobbed the words out. I said them fast and desperately, not sure what I was asking for but pleading for help.

She looked at me with compassion, assured me this was more common than I thought, and prescribed me some anxiety medicine. A low dose, short-term solution for my out-of-control emotions, uneasiness, and anger.

I knew something was wrong, and I couldn’t make it better on my own.

I started buspirone in early November, during the chaos of a last-minute decision to get our house ready to sell. We had one month to finish a million things and list by December 1st. We were busy and stressed, but it took the focus off how things didn’t feel right.

December our house sold quickly, we celebrated the holidays, packed a house, and tried to find a minute to breathe.

January turned into February and then March arrived. We were feeling a little bit settled into the new house, new routines, new school. I had stopped hating my husband and mostly tolerated him.

What had felt overwhelming and crushing in the fall felt more manageable now. We were still fighting weird fights we’d never fought before and he was less patient with our children, but I know being married to me isn’t easy. I am demanding, critical, and expect a lot. After ten years, I assumed I’d worn Chris out. He seemed unhappy and distant with a really short fuse, but I blamed myself, my flaws, my high standards. I am a handful.

One Friday I’d been getting text updates from my sister and her husband, as they were finally at the hospital in labor with my newest niece or nephew. I got word late afternoon it was go time and so I readied the girls to head to the hospital and we eagerly awaited Chris’ arrival home from work so we could head out.

Once in the car, I realized I hadn’t fed my kids dinner, and they were starving. I was anxious to go meet the new baby whose sex we didn’t know; everyone was sure it was a boy, but I was adamant it was a little girl. I needed to get there ASAP to confirm my suspicion. We stopped at a Wendy’s before getting on the interstate and the drive-thru was lined up around the parking lot. I jumped out to run in and Chris waited in the car with the girls.

Inside was just as slow. After suffering through a family of seven ordering four of everything off the menu, it was my turn. I ordered food for the girls, a sandwich for Chris, and a Diet Coke for myself.

And then I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

It was horrible. The people behind the counter were frying one French fry at a time, waiting for water to freeze, showing a chicken how to make nuggets.

Actually, I don’t know what they were doing, but it was ridiculous. I had been in the restaurant about ten minutes waiting for our food and all I wanted to do was go see that new little baby.

Suddenly the door to the restaurant flew open and in charged my husband. His face was contoured in rage. From across the restaurant, he yelled, “WHAT IS TAKING SO LONG? ARE THEY RETARDED?”

I froze.

I stood there, eyes wide, as my face reddened. I didn’t say anything, I just shook my head ever so slightly in hopes no one would know I knew him or that he was talking to me. He stared at me, then turned around and left.

Again, I hated him. I absolutely hated him. Who was this person I had married? I was filled with rage and shame as I stood there waiting for our food. I actually thought about not going back to the car.

When I finally made it back with our food, we just screamed at each other as Chris drove us to the hospital. I was heartbroken to realize I had married such an ugly, horrible person. He wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t embarrassed he had acted that way. He didn’t feel remorse for the word he used or the scene he had just caused.

When I type I hated him, I can’t even begin to describe how much. When I slung his sandwich at him, he spat back he didn’t want it, so I threw it out the window. Ellie sat in the back, screaming crying. Harper said nothing and just watched the shit show happening in the front seat.

Who had we become?

Why were we so miserable? What was happening?

(Just joining this series? Start here.)

What resonates with me most about Jesus is how he collected the broken and messy people. He wasn’t loud or boisterous about it, he just went where people were hurting and helped them not hurt as much.

That’s why I follow Jesus. That’s why I go to church each week. That’s why I sit down every day and read my Bible. It’s me raising my white flag signaling I’m broken and messy and hurting and I want less of those things. It’s me acknowledging only Jesus can do the healing.

I love that Jesus called out religious leaders who asked him why he was hanging out with prostitutes, thieves, adulterers, and tax collectors. Luke 5 makes me giddy.

After this he went out and saw a man named Levi at his work collecting taxes. Jesus said, “Come along with me.” And he did–walked away from everything and went with him.

Levi gave a large dinner at his home for Jesus. Everybody was there, tax men and other disreputable characters as guests at the dinner. The Pharisees and their religion scholars came to his disciples greatly offended. “What is he doing eating and drinking with crooks and ‘sinners’?”

Jesus heard about it and spoke up, “Who needs a doctor: the healthy or the sick? I’m here to invite outsiders, not insiders–an invitation to a changed life, changed inside and out.” (Luke 5:27-32, The Message)

Jesus is for disreputable characters and the outsiders. He’s here to greatly offend.

He is for the broken.

Which is good news for me because I am really really broken right now.

I’ve been wrestling with my current mess for a while, and I’ve been struggling with how I was supposed to write about it. If I was supposed to write about it. Basically, I realized it came down to this: stop writing all together or address my current mess.

So I’m choosing to write.

I can’t write with resolution. I can’t write with a snappy conclusion. I can’t write with answers and encouragement. I can’t write with humor. I think pretending I can do those things right now is a fake representation of being a Jesus follower.

Rachael Held Evans in Searching for Sunday writes “We Christians don’t get to send our lives through the rinse cycle before showing up to church. We come as we are. No hiding. No acting. No fear.”

So for the next few weeks, we’re going to pretend this is church. I’m going to show up and tell some stories, God is going to do His work, and you–the reader–will be the congregation.

(Typing that little paragraph gave me a thrill. I’m not preaching. I’m just talking…or writing. But some of the things I write here are very similar to a message you might hear on a Sunday morning. And I belong to a church who–along with many, many other similar churches–does not think women should be preaching or teaching. The irony of that is not lost on me. Many of the people who love my writing and encourage others to read it would be the same people who, if I printed out my post and happened to be standing on a church stage or behind a pulpit on a Sunday morning, would lose their minds. Man, I love the Church, but we’ve still got a lot of work to do.)

I’m coming as I am, and although I like to pretend I’m brave, I’m actually really scared. I could write a whole post listing the reasons I don’t want to do this. The things that might happen.

The judgments.

The fears.

But underneath all of that is a little whisper that says this is going to be okay. I will make you brave. Beauty from ashes.

Right now I am living in the tension of knowing God’s promises and believing them with my whole heart while still struggling through the destruction of what I thought my life was. I’m putting one foot in front of the other knowing healing will come but not yet seeing it.

As the wise prophet Bon Jovi said, “I’m living on a prayer.”

The problem is I like to write from the healing side, the part of the story where I’ve seen the good in the land of the living, and I can share it with you. The problem is I like to write from a less-broken place.

But it’s been months, I’m still pretty broken, and so it’s time.

Today starts a series that will last two weeks. That’s right, two weeks. (Yikes.) I’ve got ten posts already written, edited, and scheduled to publish. Some of them have been written for months and some are newer. A disclaimer about what’s coming would be I’ve condensed a lot of life into a small amount of time. The reality of trying to tell a story is the storyteller has to leave some things out. Time, space, privacy, memory, and a million other considerations go into sharing this stuff, and while I’ve tried to do my best, I will fall short.

Also, at heart I’m an English teacher. I get the nuance of telling a good story, how to create interest, how to evoke emotion, how to manipulate a reader. I have tried really hard to just tell a story and not sensationalize any of it. It doesn’t need my help. It’s sensational on its own.

In The Message version of the Bible, Luke 5’s heading is “Invitation to a Changed Life.” It starts with Jesus healing a man with leprosy. After he is healed, Jesus instructs him, “Don’t talk about this all over town. Just quietly present your healed self to the priest, along with the offering ordered by Moses. Your cleansed and obedient life, not your words, will bear witness to what I have done.” But the man couldn’t keep it to himself, and the word got out. 

For the man with leprosy who was healed, everyone would have noticed. He would have been known as unclean and disease-ridden because leprosy wasn’t something you could hide. His life revolved around leprosy and now his life was going to be drastically different.

You can’t see my leprosy. You can’t see the sin and destruction and brokenness in my life unless I tell you about it. We can’t get to the good stuff–the changed life, inside and out–unless we first call out the parts that need changing.

I want my life to bear witness to what Jesus has done, but first I have to show you the before.

The rest of this series:
Something was wrong with me
Back and forth, back and forth
The third of May
A pause for thoughts + edits
It’s lonely here
Hindsight
Muscle memory
Breathe
Right now in this moment

When we write on the internet, we–for just a moment–hold the power.

The power to make people think, the power to sway people, the power to anger people. We have lots of power.

A lot of the power, though, isn’t what we think it is. Because our words tell people who we are inside. What we fear, what we love, what we enjoy, what we hate. Nothing is ever as simple as it sounds or as easy as it looks.

I think a lot of what gives us power and authority is when we decide to not write something on the internet.

There is power in what we keep to ourselves.

There is power in what we learn without sharing.

There is power in what we enjoy for nothing else than the pleasure it gives us.

There is power in what we withhold because we love and respect others.

The mark of a good, mature writer in any arena (on a blog, Twitter, a website, Facebook, etc.) is being able to tell a story or teach something without damaging others.

Let me be the first person to say this is really, really hard. Telling a complete story without throwing others under the bus is difficult. Writing from hurt and brokenness without bringing revenge or personal vindication into the story takes maturity and restraint. It’s something you learn through trial and error, practice, saying sorry, tweaks in your approach.

Writing on the internet is dangerous and hard and not for everyone.

I’m not talking about myself right now. I feel that’s important to say. I’m not calling out my writing as good or bad at this. I’m just processing some things I’ve read, wondering how someone could be so immature in her writing, and trying to figure out how to not be that asshole on the internet.

The bad news is we’ve all been that asshole on the internet before.

The good news is we don’t have to stay the asshole.

Part of growth as a writer is acknowledging the power writing on the internet holds and that maybe withholding is where we’re most powerful.

If I can’t tell a good story without making others look bad, maybe I don’t need to tell that story.

If I can’t teach a lesson without telling you how awful someone else is, maybe I haven’t actually learned enough yet.

If I can’t make a point without tearing others down, maybe I should keep my mouth shut.

If I can’t write without leaving out parts to make myself look good, maybe I don’t need to tell that story.

This discernment is hard.

It’s also why I had to delete Facebook from my phone a few years ago. Nothing is more dangerous for me than quick access to an audience.

Time is always our best friend when it comes to writing on the internet, because if you give yourself some time and distance from what you’re wanting to post, you either lose the desire or you step back enough to re-evaluate the ways you’re writing.

It’s why I have to let a blog post sit for days–sometimes weeks–before I post it.

It’s why people have editors read their writing before they publish.

It’s why if you’re not sure, saying your comment or post out loud to someone is helpful.

If I’m writing about someone or writing to someone and I wouldn’t say the thing to them while standing in front of them, looking in their eyes, I probably shouldn’t be sharing it on the internet.

If I’m writing about something hard and it involves other people, I have to invite them into the writing decision. We are not allowed to tell others’ stories without their permission. This means sometimes I send something to a friend, and they ask me not to post it. This means when I write about my marriage, Chris has to read it before anyone else does and sometimes it doesn’t actually make it to the internet.

Writing on the internet is hard.

We’ve only been doing it for about twenty years–writing on the internet–and while we grew up learning social cues and norms from our parents, it’s like we didn’t realize those translate to the internet also. Making connections is hard, believe me, I know. I try to teach sophomores to make real world connections to things we’re reading, and they just don’t understand how that even works.

But if we realize how much of our real-life and internet-life are reflective of one another, maybe we’d write different things on the world wide web?

This summer, Ellie got a pen pal. She was so excited to have someone to write to and sent off her first letter the day she learned of her new friend. Letters went back and forth a few times and then things got busy–everyone was getting ready to go back to school and life happened. Her pen pal didn’t write back as quickly as she had before. (This sentence could also read: “Her pen pal didn’t write back as quickly as Ellie thought she should have.”)

After a few days, I told Ellie there was no reason she had to wait for a reply to write again; she was more than welcome to send her friend another letter; that was totally allowed.

She immediately jumped up from the couch and got to work.

Later in the day, I saw the note on my desk, waiting to be stamped and put in the mailbox. I opened the letter and all it said was, WHY HAVE YOU NOT WRITTEN BACK YET? -Ellie

I was alone at the time so I got to laugh out loud and read it about ten times before I had to put on my mom face and go have a little talk with my precious oldest daughter.

You can’t write that in a letter, Ellie. It’s kinda demanding and mean.

Maybe we all need to go back to elementary school and learn how to write a good letter. Writing on the internet is just like a letter or short note, but it’s going to be read by many more people than just the intended recipient.

The power we hold when we write on the internet is also great at backfiring.

When trying to make someone else look bad, it actually reflects more on us than that person.

Someone was rude to you and you shared it on the internet? Yikes, sounds like you’re kinda rude too.

Someone embarrassed you and you tried to embarrass them on the internet? Yikes, sounds like you’re kinda immature.

Someone hurt your feelings and you shared it on the internet instead of addressing that person in private? Yikes, sounds like you don’t actually want to heal, you just want to complain.

Someone didn’t respond to your letter as fast as you would have liked? Yikes, sounds like you’re kinda impatient.

I love the quote attributed to Margaret Thatcher that says, “Being powerful is like being a lady. If you have to tell people you are, you aren’t.”

There’s power in silence.

There’s power in thoughtfulness.

There’s power in the ability to speak and share but choosing not to.

There’s power in what you leave unsaid.

There’s power in writing on the internet.

Be careful with it.

I spoke to a college class a few weeks ago. I have a friend who teaches graphic design and communications (at least that’s what I think he teaches…) and when he introduces blogging and WordPress to his students, he invites me in for a guest visit.

I talk about writing on the internet, social media, using WordPress, and a bunch of other things associated with this weird thing I do. It’s an interesting hour. I accidentally said three curse words when I visited this time.

I’m not sure my friend will invite me back.

Oopsie.

One topic I have to talk about is viral posts and the good and bad that comes with that much attention to your site and your words. I know it’s intriguing to hear what being on the receiving end of one of those posts is. I’m three (?) years out from my first one and I still think it’s odd.

When the students asked how they gain an audience, how they grow social media followings, how they get posts to go viral, I always answer truthfully: a lot of it is just luck. Dumb luck.

You never know what’s going to resonate with people. You never know what people will love and what people will hate. You never know what people will do with the thoughts and words you share. It’s a crap shoot.

And so I tell them that.

I also tell them I don’t write for the “share-ability.” I don’t write with the idea that something will bring me attention and fame. That actually sounds kinda horrifying. I write because I don’t think I can stop. I write because I feel healthier when I do. I write because I enjoy it.

After I left the campus, I was thinking about the question and my luck-answer. To some extent, luck is true, but it’s not the whole truth. I unintentionally misled them. So I want to clear that up here, even though they probably won’t ever see this.

The thing about success is it is partly luck. There are random occurrences and relationships and showed-up-at-the-right-moment bits that all factor into success. But the other part–the part I failed to mention–is that luck has to have something to work with. We have to put in the hours and the time and the failure to give the luck part something to support.

For me and this blog thing that led to a part-time career as a writer: I started doing this in 2009 when I had no idea what I was actually doing. I didn’t know my voice. I didn’t know my audience. I didn’t even have an audience. I wrote for over two years without sharing a single post or blog address. I just wrote because I like to write. I put in hours and creativity and long nights at a thing I didn’t have an expectation for. I did it because I loved it and because I found joy in it.

So success for me didn’t come suddenly with a viral post that led to bigger writing gigs, speaking opportunities, and a literary agent. It took hundreds of posts before that. It took hundreds of posts after that. I kept my head down and my goal in mind (goal: just write) for a long time before anyone took notice.

It was nice when people started noticing, but it wasn’t the goal. So it was just a little side bonus. Lots and lots of hard work were ready and waiting when luck showed up and sent a post I wrote about my marriage to the masses.

The internet disagrees about who to credit, but the quote “The harder you work, the luckier you get” seems to work well here. Luck is never really just luck. It’s setting yourself up for success and then when success comes, suddenly everyone thinks it’s easy.

No one saw the hours I spent at home every night writing after working a full-time job and taking care of kids and making dinner and training for half-marathons. Chris Graham saw. He was there in the next room while I ignored him because I had to write. But no one else was aware of those times. No one saw the work part. People normally don’t. The boring bits aren’t glamorous or popular. You give some stuff up to work on something else.

Luck is never just luck.

When I visited the classroom that day, sharing funny little stories about blogging and being someone (a few) people know from the internet, I did it wrong. I forgot to say it took years to get that break. It took years to gain that audience. It took years to make people trust me. It took years to figure out how to tell a story.

And I’m still figuring it out. Luck might come around again or it might now. I’m still working hard just in case.

*A note about luck: As a Christian, “luck” is a tricky word. I accept and fully acknowledge God is in control of my life, my circumstances, and my opportunities. I hesitate to use the word because sometimes I think it diminishes the role and hand God has in my life. I don’t believe in coincidences, and I don’t believe in luck so much as God showing off in big, creative ways to remind me (and you) He’s got a sense of humor, He has fun things up His sleeve (robe?), and He delights in throwing off expectations and plans. So read this post about luck with a grain of salt and a whole lot of Jesus.

Having a blog is funny.

I don’t like talking about my blog in real life, I think it’s weird. I don’t know why this is, but if we met, the last topic I’d bring up is my online writing life. I understand this makes no sense and accept it.

I also don’t like writing about writing. I don’t enjoy writing about blogging. Even though that would probably be helpful and people are curious, I think there are much better people already doing that well so I stay away from it. I also spend my days teaching high school kids how to write and that might be part of my dislike about doing it here.

I don’t really know. I AM SO COMPLEX AND DEEP–I HAVEN’T FIGURED EVERYTHING OUT YET.

*dramatic sigh*

Anyway, that’s a not-great introduction to telling you how people find this blog. Of course, there’s the social media sharing (thanks, Facebook) and the word-of-mouth sharing (thanks, Mom), but a lot of people end up here, at TrustyChucks.com, by the good ole’ web search. And when they do, it’s always entertaining.

I host my blog on WordPress and one option I have in my back office (where I type these AMAZING posts) is an option to view my site stats. Site stats are weird. Some months I can have thousands and thousands of people visit my blog. One day a few years ago, I topped 350,000 visits in one day. Other times (like when I’m not writing much and not actively promoting myself on all the social media places), I can see less than 100 visitors in a day. It all depends on how hard I want to work (not really hard, actually) and what the internet gods like that day.

My favorite part of the site stats is the “web search results” area. Professional blog people would tell you to analyze those, use keywords to attract more people through Google searches, and capitalize on the traffic. I, on the other hand, use the results solely for entertainment purposes.

And when I find something funny, I want to tell others, so I’m sharing some of my web search results here. GET READY TO GIGGLE.

What if my husband is not my soul mate
I’m starting with the highest search result. Without a doubt, thousands of people come to my blog to get information about their soul mates. Soul mate talk is big business. Soul mate worries consume a lot of people. My soul mate post still pisses off multiple people every day. I’m not really going to talk about it again (it’s like beating a dead horse), but that sucker still ropes in the readers. (And then makes most of them leave because my answer isn’t what they want to hear.)

Also related: how to flip his soul mate switch, when your soul mate doesn’t want to label your relationship status, signs of a husband not a husband (WHAT??), why is Victoria saying David is not her soul mate?, lustful gazes mistake for soul mate (you gotta be careful with those lustful gazes, people)

How to dress up camo shits
Ahh, dressing up the shits. I struggled with this for so long, but finally mastered it just recently. Just kidding. This is most likely a typo and should be “shirts” but I really enjoy that someone Googled shit and found my blog. My mom would be so proud. Also, if you’ve been around here long enough, you’ll remember I used to do a lot of fashion and what-I-wore posts. I’m glad I got that out of my system.

Also related: how can I wear a camo shirt on my birthday? (Answer: however you want, girl.)

Loud prayer for a sick friend
The louder you pray, the more likely God is to answer your prayers. I normally scream mine.

Brandon Knauss recovery and Is Brandon Knauss married
I had to do a web search to find out who Brandon Knauss is and apparently he’s a drug-addiction specialist with his mom. They’re a team often featured on Dr. Phil. I can’t even begin to tell you why his name leads you to my blog. Maybe I should make a page answering Brandon Knauss questions because this has happened many, many times. And now I want to know if he’s married too. You know, just in case.

Books with southern charm and happy ending
Don’t we all just want a happy ending??

I have done something that no one has done
No, wait. That was me. I did the thing no one else has done before. Back up.

Teachers be like sure I’ll help you
This makes me laugh. I don’t even know why someone would search this on the internet, but as a teacher it makes my eyes roll so hard. I have no doubt this kid just wanted the answers to whatever they were working on and when the teacher made them work through the problem and THINK, they got mad and decided teachers never help. Obviously, this has *never* happened to me before.

Runners peeing pants
Still very proud of my pee-your-pants running story, thank you very much.

A beautiful story
This + a happy ending = life goals

Trusted chucks and chuck’s blog and trudy chucks and Mary Graham tiny chucks
My blog’s name is super confusing for so many people. The story’s here if you’ve never read it before. Ahhh, tiny chucks…

Also related: blogs named I got soul written by kenneth (My secret pen name is Kenneth so this makes sense to me.)

Write an emaginary story of no less than ten sentences
SOMEONE WAS TRYING TO CHEAT ON THEIR HOMEWORK WITH MY BLOG! Also, they don’t know how to spell words and also CHEATING IS WRONG.

Street walker
Hi. You have dialed the wrong number, but while you’re here, can I tell you about Jesus?

Mastodon bones
I don’t actually even know. I imagine there are about 400,000 websites that come up before mine when you Google “mastodon bones” so good work on not giving up, I guess.

Wife mating husband friend
Ahhhh, the mating rituals of wives, husbands, and friends. So confusing. So messy. So not-this-blog.

I don’t want to be uptight
*SIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH* Neither do I. Tell me how to make it stop.

Pee camping
Solution: buy a camper.

Chubby girls in boots
Again, I used to blog my outfits. Heh.

Chateau en palette
Oui. Oui. (That’s all the French I know, sorry.)

How to wave, bow, and curtsy like a princess
……………………………………..?

My body isn’t delicious
At first, I typed a funny, lighthearted answer but then I imagined this was a young girl who is just really confused with what she’s supposed to think about her body because we live in a messed up world full of the wrong messages. Then I got sad and mad and I wanted her to know “delicious” isn’t what we want our bodies to be, but I understand why you think that’s the goal. I’m sorry, sweet girl, that we’ve created that reality for you.

Well, that got serious fast. Sorry about that.

Let me bring it back to ridiculous real quick. One last search term someone used to find my blog: “playground pooping.”

Hey, it happens to the best of us.

How about you? How did you find my blog? Did one of my family members bully you into it? Did we go to high school together? Are you one of my students? TELL ME.