Roseanne, Thanks for the Wake-Up Call

I was driving through Hollywood, windows up, radio on, when a news anchor spilled the Roseanne story, how ABC dropped her like a hot potato for her racist tweet. My eyes got wide, I slapped my hand over my open mouth and said, ‘whaaaaat!!!’ A red light caught me by surprise and I slammed on my brakes.

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Silence

It’s ten pm. My windows are open to let in the cool, evening air. But accompanying the breeze, is the battering sound of a rat-a-tat-tat helicopter circling overhead. The incessant noise fills every corner of my bedroom. Fills all the quiet space in my head. I can’t escape the sound.

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Prayer Plant

I live on the second floor of a twelve-story apartment building that has enough morning light to keep my one indoor plant alive—a prayer plant that seems to live in spite of me. It fans its leaves out in the morning and closes them up at night, most likely praying that I will remember to water it.

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Prayer Plant

I live on the second floor of a twelve-story apartment building that has enough morning light to keep my one indoor plant alive—a prayer plant that seems to live in spite of me. It fans its leaves out in the morning and closes them up at night, most likely praying that I will remember to water it.

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