I think my writer brain is going through a growth spurt of sorts. It doesn’t understand what it is or what it wants to be. It just knows it wants to be more. None of its pants fit. It aches in a new kind of a way as it shoves against my cranium. It’s done with whimsy, it wants substance, but it doesn’t yet have the words to go there. It will take tylenol and go to bed pissed. But one day it’ll wake up and it won’t hurt anymore. It’ll waltz itself into a nice pants place where grown-ups go. It will select power slacks that shout I have been alive for quite some time, and I have quite some time left. It will admire its butt in the mirrors. It will find they fit perfectly.