Thought.is

When I need a break from the Internet, I will go and harass my co-worker for a few minutes. If he wants to get coffee, I go with him, back down to the Blimpie, in an effort to kill more time.

Each morning, I compose a letter to an inmate in prison in Microsoft Word, print it, sign it, and mail it out with my return address. The letters are part niceties, part macabre humor.

How are you? I hope things are fine. I noticed you are in prison until the year 2020 and were born in 1991. That is a shame to hear. A young mind is a terrible thing to waste.

I grew up in Southern New Jersey, an upper middle class town right outside Philadelphia called Cherry Hill. My parents never had any money though and when they got divorced, when I was 10-years-old, the money situation became even tighter. My family was dirt poor and broken up.

What is “obstruction of justice,” anyway?

This investigation isn’t as “independent” and may not be as “impartial” as the Trump DOJ would have us believe.

Where do we go from here?

Happy words don’t flow smoothly. They’re choppy,
gritty, and forced. It’s like when you go to the beach
and come back with particles of sand wedged
between your teeth, your ears, your strands of hair.
It takes a while to remove the sand.