A little over a month ago, I was having a rough day with my brain goblins, so I wrote myself this note to remind myself that Depression Lies.

I stuck it to my monitor, next to another one that reminded me to relax my shoulders and breathe.

At some point, it fell off and I forgot about it. Just now, I got under my desk to move some cables and sweep up the dust and animal fur and various Eldritch Horrors that manage to find their way down there and fill all the available space, like the traffic in Sim City. While I was scooping out just way more fur than I imagined existed in my entire house, and at least half a bowl of granola, and a few dollars in tarnished change, I saw my little sticky note. It must have been knocked off and fallen behind the desk when I wasn’t paying attention.

I glanced at it, scooped it up, and automatically put it in the trash, on top of just so much fur and dead leaves and way more rubber bands and twisty ties than would be considered “a reasonable amount”. I turned to go back to cleaning up the rest of the bullshit, when I stopped for a moment, turned back, pulled my little note out, and read it aloud.

“I am loved,” I said, sitting on the floor underneath my desk, the fan of my server quietly blowing warm air across my feet. “Thank you, past me, for the reminder. I don’t need it today, but maybe someone else does, and I’m going to post this for them.”

You are loved. You are enough. I see you.

Author’s note: these memories are extremely old. I’ve done my best to convey the emotional truth of this story, but I’m sure some of these details are not perfectly accurate. Names and other details have been changed.

In the summer of 1981, my friend Jenny, who lived next door, had a friend from Northern California visit for a couple of weeks.

Her name was Candice, and she went by Candi. She was my first — and biggest — childhood crush. That summer, the Stars On 45 medley was blowing up, and whenever it came on my transistor radio, I’d sing “sugar, ah, honey honey, you are my candy girl” from the deepest well of my little first crush having heart. Listen, do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell? Maybe she would be my candy girl, whatever that meant (holding hands, I was pretty sure). I could sing it right in front of her and she didn’t even know! Delightfully devilish, young Wil.

We were playing in the sprinklers in Jenny’s front yard, when her mom called them in for lunch before they went to the zoo. (The kids next door got to eat all the stuff I wanted: Frosted Flakes, Kool-Aid, Ding Dongs, Otter Pops, everything that was marketed to kids that I wasn’t allowed to have because something something sugar. Here’s some carob. It’s exactly like chocolate, except it’s waxy and flavorless and all kids hate it. Enjoy!) I went home to get something for myself and figure out the rest of my afternoon, until they got back.

So with blades of grass stuck to my feet and legs, my hair smashed down by sweat and water, and this fluttering in my stomach that was new to me, I ran out of the summer heat and into my house. The swamp cooler was doing its best to cool the house down, which left a lot to be desired, if I’m being honest. The kitchen was to my right. The living room was in front of me, and the hallway to our bedrooms and the bathroom was on my left. My dad was in the kitchen sitting at the table with his back to me. He was on the phone with the long cord, and didn’t notice me come in.

It only took a few seconds for me to figure out that he was talking to my uncle, who I thought was the coolest dude on the planet. I inhaled, preparing to ask my dad if I could say hi to him, when I heard that Dad was talking about me.

He was telling my uncle that I had my first crush. And he was making fun of me about it. Behind my back. He was laughing about how I didn’t think anyone knew. He said something about how I was picking my clothes out for the first time, choosing them carefully, brushing my hair, and singing this song over and over. To a normal parent, it would probably be adorable and sweet, but to my dad was a point of shameful weakness to be mocked. He was having a big laugh at my expense, and he was laughing with my favorite uncle.

I was humiliated, embarrassed, and deeply hurt. I felt betrayed. I was instantly aware of my bare chest, wet swimming trunks, skinny legs and arms. I was overwhelmed by shame. I was stupid. I’d been embarrassing myself all summer long in front of everyone, and like the idiot my dad knew I was, I didn’t think anyone knew.

Continue reading… →

I get a ton of junk email, like we all do. I have aggressive filtering, like most of us do. But something gets through every day, because reasons.

My personal favorites are the ones that address me as if I am, personally, Barnes & Noble. They frequently offer cleaning and reputational services (for me, Mr. Barnes & Noble), as well as something about putting Google Maps directly into my stores. Good stuff.

Today, something got through, and in those few preview words you can see without opening the email, I read the phrase “Million dollar bacon.”

So I said to Anne, “I mean, million dollar bacon sounds great. But who can afford that?”

“Someone who is living high on the hog,” she replied.

I haven’t had the spoons to write for a few weeks, but today, something was different, and I finished my breakfast with an ambitious, totally realistic plan to do a little work on Project Daffodil.

So I walk into my office, sit down, and realize that my desk is a clusterfuck of notes and magazines and stickers and … batteries? okay, batteries, I guess … and more than enough dust to complete the metaphor.

I stand up, and begin Unfucking my desk. It comes along nicely. I move the pile of New Yorkers I’m totally going to read to the top of the other pile of New Yorkers I’m totally going to read, careful not to disturb the pile of WIREDs I’m absolutely going to read.

I declare magazine bankruptcy; into the recycling they go.

Back to my desk. These sticky notes that fell off my monitor can enjoy their retirement catching up on the New Yorker. And I’ll just pick up this — what the? Okay, who even uses 9 volt batteries and why do I have one on my — oh, the smoke detector. Right. This should have gone into the trash when I put in a new battery on Daylight Saving Time. I glace around, furtively, Commander Hoek with his Beloved Ice Cream Bar. Real quick, before I toss it away, I taste it. Just to be sure.

Hm. These Gym Mats have very little battery zap in them. A surprisingly high number of 90s animation references, though. Into the bin.

I sort the stickers. Most will be added to project Cover This Box With Layer After Layer of Stickers. But one of them victoriously emerges from the rest, as a laptop contender. I place it on the desk where it will be … considered.

That’s when I get a closer look at the dust. I don’t know how thick a single layer of dust is, but this is enough to qualify for a blanket.

PRO TIP FROM UNCLE WIL: Iif you’re super lazy like me and hate dusting, you can put the air filter in your office to maximum, close the door, and use your compressed air thing to blast the dust off your desk, right into the air. The filter will suck it all out and you get to decide if you want that to be a dirty joke or not. This is not recommended for people with allergies. Wearing a mask while you do it is encouraged.

The dust settles. And now my work area is clean and orderly.

Well … except for that cable.

SOME TIME LATER

Fucking cables my god why does everything have to be so hard all I wanted was a Pepsi.

But the desk really does look great. In fact, I can feel the creative energy building around me and flowing…

…right into that stack of boxes in the corner, next to the bags of stuff I brought home from cons last year that I was going to sort through right after I got caught up on the New Yorker. It’s kind of pooling there, sloshing up on that Lego set I’ve been hoping to build since the 1900s.

Shit. Okay. I guess we’re doing this. Having unfucked the desk, I now turn my attention to unfucking the entire office.

I make three piles: recycle. trash. keep.

The keep pile is sorted into categories: Presidential Library, Art, Badges, Books, and so on. They will be put away in due time, but I linger on some of them: dice. drawings. notes from people who didn’t trust themselves to remember the words when they met me (I see you SO HARD, friends). And I remember how fun it was before Covid, how hard we’ve tried since Covid to make it fun again, and how much I’m sincerely excited to see my friends, castmates, and fellow nerds again in Austin next month.

I put the keepers away in their various proper places, handle the rest, and look around my freshly unfucked office. Now! I can get to work!

Into the chair. Okay, shake off the cobwebs, open xed and … oh. Wow.

Wow that’s … wow.

My keyboard is so dirty. Like, I need to write myself up for this. How did I not notice this before? Why is that key sticky? Is that cat fur? And is that … is that fucking barbecue sauce down there between the K and the L?

The keys come right off for easy cleaning. I have a little tool and everything.

Shit.

I’m not going to write a damn thing today, am I?