A Friendship Force of Nature

Late last night, after all the rides had been ridden and much of the delivery Chinese food eaten, the eight of us took up residence in the living room of our stay in Kissimmee, Florida to talk about the bachelorette we were there celebrating. Over wine we shared our best Laura memories, laughing a bunch but crying a fair bit, too. It was during that time that I spoke the following toast aloud.

Laura,

Over the years you’ve been “the person” for several people in this room. As one of those oh-so-fortunate several, I can say from firsthand experience that you don’t carry that mantle lightly. A willing and impeccable listener who’s brutally honest, fiercely loyal and so often selfless, for your people you, Laura Lynch, are a friendship force of nature; a blonde, bossy, brilliant hurricane of sass.

Which is why, as we wrap up this last hurrah before you walk down the aisle (Or ride down it on an elephant? I’m sorry, I should have fact-checked that detail...), I believe, in my heart of hearts, that Maninder lucked into the highest kind of riches when he got you as his forever person.

Let’s all raise our glasses to Laura, for finding her forever person.

Cheers!

Too, Well, Common

I just finished my second queer memoir of Pride Month—I Am Not Myself These Days by Josh Kilmer-Purcell—and below is my favorite passage.

I try to make myself realize that I have learned the difference between right and wrong. That there is such a thing as right and wrong. But instead I’ve learned that these are things—this “right,” this “wrong”—these are things that we are told. Simply told to believe. These are things we have not tested. And while most of the things we are told may be true, it is not until we have tested them, taunted them, flaunted them, that we truly know they are right. Or wrong. Or true. Or false. Or somewhere in-the-fucking-between. And I think I know now a little better which is which. And I also know I’ll never quit testing this world. I’ll never rely on common knowledge. Or common denominators. Or even common sense, for that matter. To do so would be too, well, common.

Keep Your Bones

In 1963 Charles Bukowski wrote a letter to John William Corrington and it contains, to my mind, some quite fine bits of real damn loveliness.

Keep your bones in good motion, kid, and quietly consume and digest what is necessary. I think it is not so much important to build a literary thing as it is not to hurt things. I think it is important to be quiet and in love with park benches; solve whole areas of pain by walking across a rug.

(via karigee.com)