Hello toes," I say. They're good toes. I like that they're long and slender and not the slightest bit stubby. I wiggle them, ten unstubby waves that say, "And hello to you, Human Host!" Except they're toes. I'm talking to my toes. Maybe I'm not bored... maybe I'm lonely?

I live in my own little world. But its ok, they know me here.

Prancing around with marshmallowss on your nipples does *not* constitute living your life fully!

I'm sorry," he said again, and this time he took those words and owned them.

I think that ties in with issues of identity as well - that sometimes there are parts of us we want to hide, and then there's other times we say, "You know what? Nope. Done hiding that part."

And books are such an empowering way to give voice to some of these kids who aren't yet ready to tell their story. Or don't know what their story is, or are trying to figure it out.

We all mess up. It's what we learn from our mistakes that matters.