dear diary, i know i’ve written about this before, but i am truly jealous of toads and their gender roles—or lack thereof—in the mushroom kingdom. the mere existence of toad boldly asks what if being a little guy was its own gender and you know what? i admire that greatly. dear diary, do you ever think about a scoring system for gender that starts at zero and accumulates points, rather than shaving them off the total possible? to be clear, i don’t want to gamify gender—just the opposite. i left my woman card in the atm because my balance ran out. the bank was out of man cards. dear diary, i’d be so content to sit with this nothing, live off only the land (so to speak) but much like mount everest or the grand canyon or niagara falls, people really saw something so beautiful and painted it late-stage landlord grey—splendor be damned. gender be damned, i think, i say, but really, what i mean is that i want you to stop thinking of me as a woman. i mean i want to build my gender, whatever it is, from zero, feel like i’ve earned it or even like it belongs to me at all. dear diary, there is no she in these here hills—only a carpet of white and red mushrooms.

dear diary, the next time there is a large proliferation of cicadas, i would like to opt out. you can’t convince me to be fascinated by any insectoid (preferring to avert my eyes or else, crush it with a shoe) and you cannot convince me a cicada is not almost the worst of the nightmare fuel—bulging, red-bead eyes. a smattering of holes in the ground. nymph-shells stuck to everything leafy, the sides of the house. crunchy bodies when expired. dear diary, i barely remember 2004 but the summer of 2021 is clear as day, cicadas en masse dive-bombing anyone who dare roll their windows down on leesburg pike, just outside berryville. maybe i’m a hater, but my own angst feels like the only brood i have room for—i don’t want to stand outside at the gas station and feel spindly legs grip my own calves. i do not believe in this brand of magic.