They don’t grow so much as they explode like a virus in a sneeze. Someone plants one spiny little bitch without asking, and before you know it you’ve got blackberries creeping through the dirt in the raised beds you built yourself… all you can think about are the broad green leaves you picked, planted, worked for, wanted, but will never see.
I don’t have a burden of proof to satisfy in order to say what I know, in my gut, is true. You know why I don’t have proof? Because most sexual assaults don’t happen in front of witnesses. You know why my gut tells me it’s true? Because mine didn’t. Not any of them.
I just read Jian Ghomeshi's piece in the New York Review of Books. Yes, the whole thing. Yes, multiple times. I await some sort of prize for reading the entire bag of lukewarm bile without putting my fist through a wall, vomiting into the fist-hole, and dropping my phone into the vomit in the fist hole while saying, "I FUCKING QUIT."