In college I wrote for the paper.

My readers mostly hated me. And by “readers” I mean editors. Apparently they wanted facts. I was more into emotion. Drive. Haikus in unconventional meter.

Also, I was into religion. Not faith, but religion. Picking it apart like you might a multi-layered salad. Or a trifle.

But not a tasty trifle. Rather, like one of those ham and cottage cheese trifles that that one lady brought to every Lutheran potluck because her husband liked it.

That was a thing, by the way. A lady at my childhood church made a ham and lemon jello mould for every potluck that was left untouched by everyone in that church basement except for her husband.

That’s love, I think. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s laziness. But, regardless, I didn’t care about facts as much as I cared about why the hell she’d make that jello mould every potluck even though it was avoided by everyone like a copperhead at a petting zoo.

My editors hated that about me.