The Devil's Gift

One day last week, I and three others arrived at the same time at the four-way stop at the intersection of German and Duke. It was awkward.

My father gave me a gift he didn’t mean to.

I dreamed I was watching the presidential debate. Technically, it wasn’t a dream. When Satan’s in your dream, it’s officially a nightmare.

Last Sunday’s post got more than the usual comments. All favorable, but one. A guy named Randall thinks I’m soulless.

But don’t forget its illustrious moment.

The Torah says: Love your neighbor as yourself. The Buddha says: There is no self. The Jewish Buddha says:

There had to be a sequel to last week’s post: “Know thyself.” Here it is: “Love yourself.” Knowing is good. Loving is better.

“Know thyself” sounds like good advice until you try it and end up down a rabbit hole, or in a hall of mirrors.

I met a Brood X cicada who spoke English. She agreed to an interview with The Devil’s Gift.

An old friend wanted to go on a bike ride during my blog writing hours. Friend or not, I mustn’t give in to temptation or my work will suffer.