Journal 12.18.20 I’ve always enjoyed Anne Lamott—ever since that summer day when I discovered her in a tiny, gay bookstore in Cape May, New Jersey and then sat in the park, on a bench, and read these little stories, and laughed and cried and wondered at life, while waiting for my girlfriend to get off work. She was sitting on a shelf, Anne not my girlfriend, just a trade paperback of the sort I used to read a lot of at that time, and I picked it up, read the back and maybe a few pages before...
