I'm re-watching True Blood while I knit lately, not because I loved it but because it's entertaining and I can divide my attention between Eric Northman, Lafayette, and my yarn equally without missing too much of any of it. But because of that limited focus, I can't remember which character responded to a question about whether they were grossed out by staying in a house where people died, but the paraphrased answer is what twanged through my head like a banjo string this weekend. "I don't figure there's anywhere on this earth where somebody hasn't died." I was back in the town where I grew up this weekend for my 30th high school reunion, and my brain was a constant flickering filmstrip of memories. D.N. peed against that church wall when we were walking the dog once. That's the playground where S.B. ran to turn the car radio up in the dark (Manic Depression came on!) and slammed face first into the monkey bars, resulting in immediate buzz-kill a...
Cheaper than therapy.