FEATURED POST

If someone else were paying me to write this, I might feel compelled to begin with something pithy and breathless: "Even as poet Laura Ingram's body vanishes, her body of work grows..." It's a good thing that no one else is writing over my shoulder.

Vent post: When I was a little boy, I always dreamed that I'd be 37, stuck in my hometown in a dead-end teaching job; biochemically handcuffed to methadone after years of carpet-bombing my receptor systems; physically and emotionally separated from my fiancé, who is geographically so far away that he couldn't be any more distant without leaving planet Earth (although, to be fair, I have become such a ghost of myself that it arguably wouldn't matter if we were physically toget

England is a country with terrible food populated by posh women whose money cannot save them from looking like Mrs. Doubtfire. Because they can't go to the bathroom properly, its people are unruly and often intoxicated; they are deeply classist, their junk is uncut, and one of Earth's most beautiful and hospitable natural landscapes is largely wasted on them. In short, I loved it. 10/10 will visit again.

Holiday 2025 life updates: An original poem, plus reflections on childhood, living abroad, my relationship with my fiancé, and my thoughts on three memoirs that I have recently read. I also discuss my hopes and plans for 2026.