From my cozy little writing nest in the worn bucket chair that faces Loring Park, I glare around the room.

Clank!  —– Clank!—————-maybe it stopped…

CLANK!

I squirm in my seat.  Boost my iPod.  The couple across from me takes their impassioned daily dialogue about politics and education up a notch.  I find Flogging Molly.  I want to flog molly.  I take a deep breath and a sip of my coffee.  It’s bitter and cold already.  Oh god, my mid-section is being strangled by my tights.  I feel constricted.  Pinched.  My pen is dry.  My head is empty.  The page is a mess.

At 7:00 a.m. I give up and head to the office.  The first thing I’m going to do when I get there is grab a pair of scissors and hack the waistband off these clankin tights. 

About the Author Julie Ann Stevens

My art flows from the patterns & paths of my lived experience which ⏤ like yours ⏤ are at once deeply personal and entirely universal.

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