That Would Be A Good Band Name

I love travelling, I do. And I love being able to spend so much time with my mom, which rarely happens nowadays. So I can’t help feeling guilty when I’ve only been gone like 10 days and I start feeling homesick for Boston. I miss my dad and our puppy Phoebe, and I miss my bed and my new apartment and our sexy hardwood floors and our free fish Fridays, and I REALLY miss my friends. I want to know all the gossip, and how everyones’ days went, and if things aren’t going well and if they are. I want to watch silly movies and funny TV shows and drink wine at our kitchen table like grown-ups before hanging out on the party porch. I feel so far away, and that’s because I am, and I know I’m coming back soon, so I’m trying to focus on being here as much as I can. But I’m still letting myself get a little excited to walk through our front door in Cambridge and say “I’m home!”

alexleo:

Um, ADORA-POTUS.

(via abbienotabigail)

In Barcelona, there´s a marketplace off La Ramblas (where you´re more likely to get pickpocketed than anywhere else in Europe, and there are living statues that pose with skeletons in their bicycle baskets, and Indian men whistle through their teeth, and there´s a section called “La Ramblas of the Little Birds” where you can hear them tweeting plaintatively in their cages, locked in the stalls at night) and in this marketplace there are aisles and aisles bursting with strange fruits, and cups of juice (any kind you can think of, orange, pineapple, strawberry, raspberry, blackberry), and huge wheels of pale brown, yellow cheese, and rows and rows of meat: decapitated goat heads with their silly tongues sticking out and price tags stuck in their eyes like eggs, staring at you, and tiny, bright pink pigs with their back legs curled under and their front hooves crossed, like they´re bowing in child´s pose, eyes closed in sleep, and giant legs of cows and hogs that hang from the ceilings like lanterns, and there´s the constant hiss of sharpening knives and the buzz of saw through flesh and it´s so grotesque and strangely inviting because everyone´s laughing and talking and yelling and haggling and you just wish you could go there every day, to this butcher shop supermarket street, with the guts and stomachs and flies, because if you were known there, underneath the stained glass, art nouveu sign, it would truly be a place to belong.

Today is my sister Maggie’s 12th anniversary of having been diagnosed with diabetes. This means that she’s had Type 1 diabetes for half of her life, and each year to come means that she’s lived more of her life with diabetes than without it; at least until there is a cure. My sister is one of the strongest, funniest, most frustrating, most infuriating, and kindest people I’ve known in my life. So I wrote this. (All names of Maggie and our mother’s patients have been changed.)

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