Every artist dips her brush in her own soul, and paints her own nature into her pictures. She glanced at the phone, losing herself in another meaningless train of thought. Mama, the found the body. She heard the other line of the phone whisper out to her. It made her angry, .

A blog about teaching, the good things in life, and everything else. Monday, February 22, 2016. When Panama Gives You Lemons. Living overseas can be rough, but one learns to adapt. Today was a fortuitous day though. There was nice breeze blowing, but the seas were calm. Only a few beer cans could be seen, and the ocean was nearly plastic of trash. My fiancé and I paddled happily around the bay, sometimes with our Panamanian puppy on the back of the board.

The Reasoning Behind the Title. Title suggested by the one and only Ari Constantine. I think I like it. Maybe? Anyway, this is about my sad inability to express emotion. Clouds hang outside my window. My soul lies with them. They rid me of emotion. Be my tears, be my release. Who needs cognitive psychology? This is my, this is my therapy.

We are the neon sewer dwellers. Waiting for my turn to be thrown into the pot. Boiling over, Brunswick stew burning the lot. Thrown in, screaming meat. Thrown in, lima beans. Green, mean, unraveling seams. Thrown in, wild flower pot belly sour. Red stew stirred up, thickened, corner cowered. Sit among the reeds, watch it all boil over, wait.