I had a lot to drink the other night. Enough so there are moments of the night—what did I do before I fell asleep? Did I brush my teeth?—that are gone. 

 Talking and listening are different ways of entering the church of love. When one does not feel heard, the soul and spine atrophy.

Mind you, I have never agreed with Freud’s theory of penis envy. I never, ever, ever wished I had one of those things dangling out in front of my pelvis. It seemed like a design flaw. Balls, by proxy, were in the same box. The box of no thank you. I like what I got. It’s secretive. Mine. I don’t have to get special gear when I run or do sports to protect my nether parts. What I have seems to make so much more sense than the other package option. 

It started with Cesar Millan and The Dog Whisperer. I wanted Cesar to walk into my house, stage an intervention, take control, and get me to behave—Sit.  Stay.

A Write or Die session is like having someone (well, two people: you and me together) clean both your windshield and your rearview mirror. It’s easier to move forward with a project or a plan or a dream when you can see both where you are going and where you have been and, as you check your look in the mirror, where you are now.

I massaged a Navy Seal once and forgot to charge him because I was so thrown off my game by his body.

1. This is serious business. Buckle up. If you don’t want to throw your whole self into this endeavor, do both of you a favor and get back on Match.com.

If you are in the Bay Area, please join us on April 14th from 1-4 p.m. in downtown Willow Glen to play with us, surprise yourself, and leap into your dreams.

I was talking to my Uncle Clint about the process of packing up house and figuring out what to take and what to give away or sell, and he said something along the lines of, “You’re dealing with the impedimenta of life.”

We were born to be wild. Hum a few bars. Remember?

Recently I figured out that many things in my life which frightened me were actually flaming doorways to opportunity.

I know my mother could not fully exist as herself with me in the room because I read my mother’s journals after she died and I saw what I had always suspected: she was not presenting the real story of herself and her life to me.