Wait till I tell you

was something my dad often said before he’d start a sceal (the fada accent is missing from sceal, look both ‘sceal’ and ‘fada’ up if you need to).

Wait till I tell you, driving scares me, especially driving on freeways, or to new places, or at night, or on narrow, winding roads, or on cliff edges, and on and on. I’m afraid of losing control, of getting lost, of hurting myself, or someone else. I sweat salt beads that sweat salt beads and my heart tries to get outside me, to run away.

I’m afraid and I wrote about it, for a potential readership of 20 million at Ozy Magazine.

I’m afraid and I’m maybe crazy.

In the illustration Ozy used, I’m also a blonde.

Yes, a blonde.

That’s blondism, another made up word like ethrophobia (just read my essay already).

This is the photo of the tree I mention in the essay (which they didn’t use).

Beep, beep.

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