Jeanie Miller, 32, from Portland, Oregon, spends her days pursuing a career in public librarianship, making geometric collages for http://foursidedfriends.com, and falling in love.
“What do lips do Veronica?”
—Dr. Bostwick
“They bleed.”
—Veronica
I stare at Veronica’s full, healthy lips that she probably never even thinks about, as she comes at mine with gauze. She presses. I feel pressure, but no pain – not since they shot me full of Novocain – or whatever it is they shoot lips with.
“This biopsy is long overdue; now we’ll know exactly what’s causing your lips to swell, form these pustules, and peel. And, we’ll finally know how to treat them,” Dr. Bostwick says. He turns to Veronica as he exits, “Have Dr. Blahblahblah at UCLA analyze that.”
Veronica’s eyes go wide, “Wow, he’s having Dr. Blahblahblah do it – that’s big – he’s the chief resident – or whatever (I’m paraphrasing).”
I drive back to work on the freeway with a stitch in my swollen lips – wailing and sobbing and feeling horrible for myself. I cry the way a kid cries when it’s been a long day and life has stopped making sense – a tantrum. I throw a tantrum, while driving 75 miles an hour on the 10 freeway.
Back at work I sneak into the ladies room to clean up my weird rash-y, swollen face. I try to smile – I don’t mean like I try to buck myself up – I mean I physically try – it hurts. I sigh and head into the writers’ room.
I work on a sitcom about 40-year-olds who drink wine and are mean to each other. Our writers’ room, like most, is a place where everyone enjoys hitting each other in the dick with a dry-erase marker. I don’t have a dick – strike one. I have a weird, sad mystery illness – strike two. And, I’m horribly depressed about it – strike three.
“Great news, they did a biopsy, so I’ll finally know what it is,” I say, adding a winced half-smile. They act enthusiastic, but it’s been months of things only getting worse for me physically and emotionally, and they’re tired of me.
I don’t blame them. I’m fucking exhausted of me.
Months ago, back before my lips broke, I was really happy. I lived in a world of delusion where I was awesome, and things like lips didn’t break.
I was so convinced of my own awesomeness that I pushed away people who I thought were less awesome and weak — this Included my older brother Matthew, a ski bum who’s way into Buddhism.
Matthew would always try to bring us close by reading from his Zen phrases pocket book, “’The journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.’ Huh, what do you think that means?”
“I don’t know, man. But, if it’s a thousand miles, sounds like you should book a ticket on Southwest.”
I was a bitch. A really, really happy, bitch.
The biopsy results come back:
“Dr. Blahblahblah thanks Dr. Bostwick for sending him such an interesting case…” It actually says that on the biopsy report – what a dick. He goes on to describe the results of the “leg” biopsy – typo – he made a god damn typo – it’s my god damn lips you motherfucker. What follows is three paragraphs of medical jargon that boils down to, “I have no idea what this thing is, bra.”
Fuck all of you. Fuck everyone. Nobody knows fucking anything. What’s the fucking point? FUUUUUUUCK!
Right about now my therapist would interject with, “Kate, you’re depressed, you’re focusing on the negative. Is there any positive here?”
“My bloodwork says I don’t have lupus. They don’t think I have cancer, but they don’t know for sure - when I press them, they can’t guarantee it. No one knows. No one has any idea. I wish I at least had diabetes. Then I could say, ‘See I’m sick – I’m really sick.’ And, I could wear a colored ribbon, and run a marathon, and maybe even get goddamn, fucking treatment.”
It’s hard to focus on the positive.
In desperation I turn to the Internet. If the doctors can’t figure this out I’ll just figure it out myself.
I find out there are other people out there with a similar thing. They say it’s called Exfolative Chelitis, which means the lips continuously peel in a never-ending cycle. Doctors don’t really know what it is, and there is no known treatment for it. It’s really just a symptom of a larger issue in your body. It could be caused by a vitamin deficiency, or an allergy, or physical trauma, or just a plain old mysterious skin disorder.
One woman has had it for 10 years, others for 4 or 5.
One professor lady takes pride in her fragile body, “The most creative people have delicate constitutions. It’s a blessing to be so sensitive and aware – my lips are like the tips of a grasshopper’s antennae.”
Wow, she has taught herself to focus on the positive. Know what might be just a tad bit better? If our lips worked.
There’s a grandmother who writes that she’s just made Christmas dinner for her family, and then her tongue spilt in half. She asks if anyone else has experienced this. She’d like to be able to talk and eat with her family this Christmas, but instead she’s sitting in front of her computer typing this desperate plea. Jesus Christ… I rise out of my self-pity long enough to weep for her.
Then, I click on the next link. Must. Solve. Lips.
One guy says he tried coconut oil and that worked.
Another says she stopped using anything with Sodium Lauryl Sulfate - that worked.
Another stopped eating chicken and eggs - worked.
They appear in my mind like skydivers whose chutes have opened; they float up and away while I continue to plummet.
A friend tells me to go to UCLA. She says teaching hospitals are on the cutting edge of treatment, they’ll be able to help.
UCLA Dermatologist: This is Rosacea.
Me: What is Rosacea?
UCLA Dermatologist: It’s a chronic inflammatory skin disorder.
Me: It effects the lips?
UCLA Dermatologist: Not usually, but it could.
Me: Why would it effect my lips when it doesn’t usually effect lips?
UCLA Dermatologist: Rosacea is poorly understood.
Me: My nostril was also swollen for a while.
UCLA Dermatologist: Well, I don’t know what that is. But, try taking an 8 – 12 week course of antibiotics – that should clear it up.
Me: Is it bacterial?
UCLA Dermatologist: The antibiotics work as an anti-inflammatory.
Me: Really? Why? How?
UCLA Dermatologist: We don’t really know.
Me: Huh…
I fill the prescription, but having taken several long courses of antibiotics through out my life to treat acne, and because I keep getting yeast infections, I wait to take them. I want more opinions. There’s got to be another way.
Another friend gets me an appointment with a fancy Beverly Hills dermatologist. This guy is the best — this is the guy all the movie stars go to. Even though he’s expensive, I don’t care. It hurts to talk, laugh, and eat. I’ll do anything. Just fix me.
He enters with his cell phone ringing - turns it off annoyed.
Fancy Derm: Ugh, Obama again. He’ll have to wait, I have a famous TV writer to see. Cougar Town, huh? (he turns to his nurse) That’s with Courteney and Busy. Yes. So, what can I do for you?
Me: My lips.
Fancy Derm: (he looks at me, then to his nurse) Tell Kinoche to get in here.
The nurse rushes out and returns with a woman wearing a white turban and a magnifying glass headset - the kind jewelers or welders wear. She flips down the headset. Her pupils look like black marbles through the thick lenses.
Kinoche: This is yeast.
Me: I was told I have Rosacea.
Kinoche: Yes, it’s yeast.
Me: I thought it was skin inflammation.
Kinoche: Yes, but do you know much about Rosacea?
Me: I know that it’s poorly understood.
Kinoche: Exactly, this is yeast.
Me: Huh…
She turns out to be his in-house esthetician and Eastern medicine guru. She recommends a diet of mostly vegetables and lots of supplements.
I bring up antibiotics. She says, “Absolutely not – you have Candida.”
Candida. Candida albicus. Fungus. Yeast.
I remember in college hearing about a woman who could only drink buttermilk because she had a system wide yeast overgrowth. I remember thinking, “What a poor jacked-up slut. Ha ha.”
Now, Western doctors don’t think Candida overgrowth is a real thing – well, they do, but those patients are almost dead – like they’re dying of AIDS and they’re going to be buried by Friday, so all kinds of shit is growing in them anyways. But, as long as your immune system is mostly functioning, “real” doctors don’t think you can have an overgrowth.
On the other hand, Eastern doctors are all about Candida. It’s their answer to any symptom: itchy skin, bloating, gas, nerve damage, feet falling asleep, insomnia, sensitivity to fragrances… all of this could be caused by Candida, which, raises its own suspicions.
So, Western doctors say take antibiotics. Eastern doctors say don’t take antibiotics. I don’t know what to believe. I fall deeper down my rabbit hole of despair. Ha ha.
I call my mom. I need help. That’s new for me. Needing help. Saying I need help.
My parents and my brother Matthew fly out to be with me. Matthew gives me a book by a Buddhist nun, and a heart shaped crystal. He points out that the crystal has a little crack, and says, “I figure it’s okay, because we’re all flawed in someway.”
I carry the crystal in my pocket, and I pour over the pages of the book. It helps me feel less alone.
For months I eat vegetables, and take fistfuls of supplements hoping something will help. I don’t see much improvement…
Every once in awhile I hold the bottle of antibiotics in my hand and contemplate…
Then, a friend with lupus tells me she seeing an Ayurvedic healer who has helped her. She refers me.
I feel a little silly seeing a healer, but I’ll try anything. Just fix me.
Marcela is from Columbia - the country not the University. When we meet she puts her finger on my pulse and listens. She says I have too much heat in my head and stomach. She’s going to bring down the heat, when she does the yeast will come down too.
Even though this sounds crazy, it also makes sense. The West says the problem is inflammation – heat. The East says the problem is yeast, and yeast thrive in an inflamed environment. But how do you bring down the heat without antibiotics (which make the yeast worse)?
Marcela recommends 7 – 11 days of Panchakarma – a 5,000 year old treatment that cleanses not only the physical body, but the emotional one, as well.
I don’t know what to expect, but what I find is life-changing.
Every morning Marcela takes my pulse to see what’s happening in my body. She asks questions like, “What’s going on with your ears today?” I’ll say, “Um, they’re ringing, and the sound kinda goes out every once in awhile.” She stares at me a beat while feeling my pulse, then says, “We’ll work on it.”
Then she’ll ask something like, “There’s a lot of sadness today. Why are you sad?” You tell her why. She feels your pulse again, and tells you it’s going to be okay. You believe her, because the pulse tells her. You’re telling her. And she just knows.
Once she’s decided on the treatment for the day, she picks out the appropriate mantra on her iPod and presses play.
Then, she starts the massage.
She and one of her helpers rub both sides of your body with oil in a synchronized massage-dance.
This massage-dance does more than unlock your muscles. It unlocks everything inside you.
Day 1, I sobbed and snotted, and felt like I’d been tossed out of the ocean.
Day 3, Marcela grew frustrated with the tension she felt when she touched me and asked, “Kate, were you mean? Did you say mean things with your lips?”
“Yes,” I cried.
“I need you to say beautiful things. I need you to say ‘Love, love, love, yes, yes, yes.’”
By Day 4, I had forgiven everyone in my life who had ever hurt me. I’d forgiven myself for anything I’d done to hurt myself. And, I’d prayed that everyone I’d ever hurt would forgive me.
On Day 5, I found God. I’d conceptually understood all that stuff people say about us all being connected by a life force greater than ourselves, but it turns out it’s true. I’m being serious. Seriously, serious.
Suddenly, a little rash and lip peeling didn’t seem like the most important thing in the world.
I mean, I don’t have lupus. I don’t have cancer. I don’t even have diabetes.
I’m incredibly fortunate.
Maybe the solution to an unsolvable problem is to stop seeing it as a problem (learned that on Day 10).
I called my brother, “I love you Matthew. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too Katy.”
I can’t believe I ever thought I didn’t love him. I can’t believe I thought he was weak. Real strength comes from allowing yourself to be weak. And, my hatred of weakness in others was really just fear of my own (Day 7).
As Pema Chodron, the Buddhist nun my brother introduced me to, says, “Weakness allows us to soften our hearts to others, and the challenge is to keep our hearts soft as we get strong again (I’m paraphrasing again, but I’m pretty sure that’s close).”
I hope, with Marcela’s help, that I continue to get stronger, but that my heart grows softer and softer.
What do lips do?
Maybe sometimes they break so they can heal.
Love, love, love, yes, yes, yes.
My baby sister was born this past Thursday. From the photos I’ve seen of her, she’s adorable and fond of sleeping all the time. Lacey joins my brother Christopher, who is just shy of his second birthday. My Dad is 52 years old and beginning a brand new chapter of his life with these fantastic children.
I couldn’t be happier for him. Things haven’t always been easy for my dad and my stepmom, and when they moved to Oklahoma, I knew that it was for the best. They could live in a house with a yard and not have to worry all the time about bills. My dad would be writing for a newspaper and fulfilling the dream he’s had since going back to college later in life.
It’s amazing to see what difference 13 years makes.
When I was 10, I sat by my bedroom window one Saturday afternoon, waiting for my dad to pick me up. I got to see him every other weekend, and we always ended up doing all of the awesome things that my mom didn’t want to deal with—like going to Disneyland or eating at a restaurant (Kids are loud and sticky). The time came and went for him to pick me up, but I sat by my window with an uneasy patience. After a couple of hours and no Dad, my mom called around trying to find him.
No one could get a hold of him.
After a few days, we found out that he’d been arrested in Las Vegas on a DUI. At the time, I didn’t really get what that meant, but I did understand that it meant that he wouldn’t be able to come to my fifth grade graduation, and that it would be a while before I saw him on account of his suspended license.
And that was the day that our relationship changed forever.
People like to hold their parents apart from everyone else. It’s easy to think, “Well, that’s not really a person, it’s my dad”, as if parents have this ability to automatically stop making mistakes after their child is born. After that fateful Saturday, my dad stopped being that mystical “Dad” figure and became a person to me.
Now, please don’t misunderstand me. I love my dad. I love him a lot. It’s one of the strongest loves that I have ever experienced because it’s one that manages to continue on through not just the awesome times, but through a lot of really shitty times as well. He’s a man, a flawed one at that, but I’m flawed too. Deeply. I have his raging frustration and anger, but I also have his beautiful and silly humor.
I used to think that our relationship was out of the ordinary, that it was damaged in some way because the parental veil of illusion had been lifted long ago. But honestly, it makes me appreciate him that much more. The fact that he’s there for every moment with my brother and sister makes me supremely happy. In the end, my siblings and I will probably have two very different childhoods, but I wouldn’t ever trade mine for the world.
Katie Willert is an actress and comedienne living in Los Angeles. You can find her on Cracked.com either dissecting pop culture in After Hours or being all sorts of crazy in The Katie Willert Experience. Katie lives in a studio apartment with her boyfriend and three cats. She also enjoys pie.
It happens that I lived through 9/11 fairly directly. I worked near there, and my job was involved in the 9/11 recovery effort. I didn’t lose anyone close to me, or get injured in the terrorist attacks. Tragedy is certainly relative. For, however much 9/11 affected me, I have
been through worse times. Like this past winter, when my computer broke.
December 22, 2011, New York City: The sun is setting on my first day in New York City. I flew in last night. I spent the day walking and stopping in coffee shops to write. I’m overjoyed: It’s as if I had just been let out of prison.
Like other people, I love New York, especially this time of year. I’m here for two weeks to walk, write and forget. I have a few things I need to forget. I’ve just lost my job and haven’t been paid in two months. It’s a long story, the result of which is a big sudden hole in my bank account. Also, I’ve been feeling sick and there’s a bunch of other abnormal things I’m trying to forget. The holidays are approaching, and my subconscious is in a mood I will call “apocalyptic.” But I have a good history of walking, writing and forgetting in New York.
This evening, I stop for some delicious dumpling soup off Broadway. I pull out my Netbook, an adorable and reliable machine that’s been by my side for two years. I attempt writing while eating soup.
FAIL. I splash soup on my computer which causes a zapping noise. The screen turns grey. No! Not my darling little Toshiba NB505, one of the smartest purchases of my life, which does everything a laptop does but at a fraction of the weight and price, with six more hours of battery life and none of the bugs. I’ve broken it.
I am suddenly alone in the world.
December 23, 2011: I sit and stare at my dead computer, emotionally spent. I’m also feeling sicker. Then, I put it away, take antibiotics and strategize on how to replace it. There will be dirt cheap Netbooks all over the city after Christmas, right? I’ll get another. It will be as if this never happened.
FAIL. I hunt for Netbooks online; I visit a dozen stores. It would appear that the entire city has sold out of mini-laptops and didn’t restock. Desperate and fixated, I search the manufacturer’s site. They’re only advertising computers at 13 or more inches. I come to the most obvious conclusion: It’s a conspiracy! The manufacturers can’t make any money on these perfect little computers, which are rendering bigger laptops obsolete, so they stopped making them. In their place, they’re peddling “lightweight” magic laptops for more than $800 and a world of tablets. I’m enraged. The anger helps me avoid the deep abiding grief (and my own culpability). My dead Netbook is irreplaceable. Everything keeps falling apart. Why me, World?
A Shot at (Shiny) Redemption
I pass Lincoln Center, too upset about this holocaust of Netbooks to enjoy my favorite landmark…and then it appears before me like a bright holy sanctuary of forgiveness:
“Come in,” it says. “Wash away your sins and play.” I enter and behold what can only be called a divine object, given how groovy it makes me feel:
That’s the solution! I’ll get an iPad! A savvy, lightweight (cute purple) investment. I can’t go back so I may as well move forward. A-ha. The universe has clearly been leading me in this direction.
I convince myself that I really need it. Never mind that I have an old computer at home that works, or that I have this hole in my bank account. Never mind the practical issues of the keyboard for writing or compatibility with the software I use. Never mind that I have an iPhone that pretty much does all of the same stuff. I definitely think I need it. Right now. Feelings this strong can’t be wrong.
I bounce all of this computer drama off of my sweet boyfriend who is in Long Island for the holidays. I can almost hear him say, “Well…” He won’t rain doubt on my parade, but he offers alternatives, such as cheaper tablets. My justifications intensify: If I buy a new iPad right now, then I can start working and it’ll pay for itself, right? Just think of the savings in back pain. Plus, it’s so cute and fun. Isn’t quality of life a kind of long-term investment?
December 25, 2011: I celebrate Christmas with my boyfriend’s extended family. It’s a wonderful day. I remember what life’s all about. Plus, his cousin lets me play with his iPad. Sigh. Soon, soon…
December 26, 2011: My boyfriend and I spend the day together in the city. We visit several major computer outlets while I make my final decision. It’s so romantic. We walk west on Chambers street, discussing the options, when I realize that we’re approaching Ground Zero.
Oh.
I’ve been so caught up with the computer drama, I forgot to feel what I usually feel when I’m near Ground Zero (a place I try to avoid). It’s a long story. Let’s back up, say, ten years…
9/11: A Day that Will Go Down in History on My To-Do List
September 11, 2001: It’s almost 9am. I’m taking the A train from Washington Heights to the World Trade Center stop. For the first time in months, maybe a year, I’m going to be on time.
I work for a large nonprofit organization as a grant writer in Lower Manhattan. The mission of the nonprofit is to help survivors of violence. They are careful not to call the survivors “victims.” I have learned to milk one word for money: “trauma.”
At Canal Street, a stop before the Trade Center, the train has paused for too long. Something feels wrong, so I exit there instead.
I notice floods of people walking away from the Trade Center and lines of people at pay phones. I notice a fire on a high level of both of the twin towers. I continue to walk downtown because it’s now 9:15, which means I can still be earlier than usual. I don’t stop to consider that it’s strange for there to be a fire in two separate buildings. I’m too fixated on being early.
I finally determine that work isn’t going to happen. I walk north, up Broadway, then I pick up the pace. People are walking faster and seem upset. The word on the street is that we are under attack—that is, America is under attack. Since I’m right there and not in front of a TV, I’m hearing the worst: Washington D.C. (where my parents live) has been bombed!
Within minutes I hear and see the towers collapse—one, then the other. There’s chaos on the streets. Even the police are scared and confused. The first thing I do, once I learn what’s happening, is pull out my to-do list. I write at the bottom: “TMPL.” That’s code for “temple.” If I get out of here alive, I will finally go to temple. I write it in code, with vowels missing, in case anyone reads my to-do list, in case I make it out alive. This puts my mind at ease.
I walk to 49th street where I stand next to a man covered head-to-toe in dust and debris. A police officer asks him: “Are you okay?” He nods. I think to myself, Hey, what about me? I’m not sure what I’m experiencing, but it feels like something. I wish I had some outward manifestation of it.
I walk all the way to 96th St., my longest city walk to date. Some things haven’t changed—I still like walking and blocking out reality.
9/11 is Very in My Face
October 1, 2001: I’ve been working for the last few weeks at the Family Assistance Center. I’ve been helping people with lost family members fill out “Missing Persons” certificates (nobody is ready to fill out “Death” certificates). I feel grateful for this opportunity—everyone wishes they could help, the Center feels like a safe haven in a city that keeps getting scarier, e.g., the threat of Anthrax streaming through every air duct. But I don’t feel prepared for this work. These “survivors” look at me in such a state of crisis and need. I haven’t watched enough Law and Order: SVU at this point to know how to respond to them.
October 10, 2001: Giuliani has asked everyone to “return to normalcy.” I try to return to normal, but there are challenges, including no phone or internet. Also, Chambers Street is a ghost town.. My favorite falafel place is covered in grey dust and boarded up. Men stand on the street corners wearing army fatigues and gas masks.
It’s also hard to ignore this very strong, distinctly sweet smell wafting through the windows from down the street. It’s the smell of burning steel and, it turns out later, asbestos and toxic things as well as thousands of burning bodies. I try not to think about that. I buy a Glade plug-in.
At work, I write about 9/11 all day—to help people who were working downtown and were affected by what they saw; social service workers who are traumatized by helping people in crisis; people who are “re-traumatized” by 9/11 because they had past trauma in their lives.
It’s very nice of my job to help all of these people. They didn’t offer to help any of us though, who fit some or all of these categories. In the years that follow, I will hear stories about coworkers affected in very intense ways.
September 11, 2002: It’s been a year. I’ve suppressed any confusing or strong negative feelings so deeply that they seem to have little bearing on my daily life. I write about 9/11 but don’t think about it. While the rest of the country wants to “never forget,” I’m happy that I’ve forgotten. It helps that I still avoid taking the train all the way to the WTC stop.
I’m having some trouble breathing, though, and a rash. It’s been steadily spreading over my body, and now it’s covering me. That air wasn’t as safe as the EPA promised. In time for the one-year anniversary of 9/11, I finally have an outward manifestation of what I experienced.
May 1, 2003: I’m celebrating my birthday at a beach-side bar in Miami. I’ve left New York City and have followed my parents to Miami where they’ve retired. Miami is a great place to forget about 9/11! The air is always clean. Life is fun and thoughtless. Work starts late and gets out early. There’s always enough tequila around to avoid worrying too much during hurricanes.
I still can’t handle 9/11 content. I quickly rush to change the channel when the talking heads discuss it or if there’s a disaster movie on. Tall buildings, planes, subways and even offices make me nervous. I visit New York every year, but I mostly stay above 14th street. I eat a lot when I’m downtown to calm my nerves. I exit the train and think “rice balls,” almost instinctively. Sometimes, I relax by researching 9/11 conspiracy theories online late into the night.
In Memoriam
December 26, 2011: Back to the present day, and this overwhelmingly tragic business of my broken Netbook. Sorry to leave you hanging…
My boyfriend and I are approaching Ground Zero, and I realize that I’m about to see the Freedom Tower for the first time. I’ve visited the city at least three times since they built it, but it hasn’t been on my to-do list. With my honey by my side and nothing left to lose, I decide I’m ready. I look up at it.
It’s too tall and pointy for comfort, but I can handle it. In fact, it’s not too bad.
We walk a little further and stop at an enclosed fence. There’s a big sign showing the future 9/11 memorial. There’s a graphic image of it. It consists of two open square-shaped reflective pools, formed out of the sunken impressions of where the towers used to be.
There are fountains of water running along the sides of each square hole and then falling into holes inside the holes—dark, seemingly bottomless holes.
No! This can’t be right. How could they…? Why would they…? Make it stop! I scream quietly
to myself. Cover the holes. Stop the water…it just keeps falling and falling…
I look around to see if other people are horrified too, as if we’re looking at children in bondage, or something else shocking on that level.
It takes a minute of just staring at this picture for the panic to die down. I realize that this isn’t the worst thing ever to happen to me. It’s just a picture of a very effective piece of art which is doing what it needs to do: It’s forcing me to remember, not the facts but the feelings—loss, losing control, falling. The memorial is aggressively pulling me into remembering all of it, not just 9/11, but everything before and since that I’ve wanted to forget. I understand why it took them ten years to build something here; it took me that long.
My boyfriend and I hold hands and walk to Battery Park City. He has a bus to catch back to Long Island. The sun is setting. The year is almost over. I have to say goodbye. We find a romantic spot and take in the most beautiful evening I can remember, right here:
As he holds me, I realize something, which I express to him aloud:
“I want to buy an iPad to fill the hole. It won’t fill the hole. I just have to feel it. I need to try to fix my Netbook, or just let it go. When I have a lot of money again, maybe I’ll get another computer.”
Epilogue: Resurrection
January 15, 2012: For only $150, I get my Netbook fixed! It’s a long story. I found this great guy on Yelp and… I won’t bore you with the details. I kinda already moved on.
Read Part 1 of “Justine Barron’s Slow-Tracked Life”
Read Part 2 of “Justine Barron’s Slow-Tracked Life”
Justine Barron writes, performs, and tells stories around Los Angeles. Her work includes award-winning film and television scripts and numerous personal essays and comedy shorts. She is a three-time Moth Storyslam winner and regularly performs her stories around town. She also performs with the improv comedy teams “Twig Storm” and “The Beatles(s).” Her comedic work is found online at www.justinebarron.com and twitter.com/justine_emma.
Image credits belong to Justine Barron and stock.xchng.
