Don't tell me that I shouldn't feel sad at my father's gravesite, and don't tell me I shouldn't feel less cozy in a home where people have been dropping like flies. I do. It's a normal human reaction, whether we call it superstition, or nervousness, or the result of seeing too many horror movies. It's still real. It doesn't matter whether it's sufficiently rational for somebody else. It's real to me, and I'm the one who has to live in the house. Continue reading
