Every person, especially artists, needs a calming influence. For me, that person is Marc Stewart. My voice of reason. My best friend. My probable husband if not for the fact that we both like men.
“If he did,” I say, “Coop’s too much of a gentleman to make a big deal out of it.” “Gentleman?” Sam says. “He’s a cop. From my experience, they fuck like jackhammers
Baking is a science, as rigorous as chemistry or physics. There are rules that must be followed. Too much of one thing and not enough of another can lead to ruin. I find comfort in this. Outside, the world is an unruly place where men prowl with sharpened knives. In baking, there is only order. That’s why Quincy’s Sweets exist
Because here’s the thing about details—they can also be a distraction. Add too many and it obscures the brutal truth about a situation. They become the gaudy necklace that hides the tracheotomy scar. I make no attempts to disguise my scars. I just pretend they don’t exist
"I swear I've never loved him more. Though I wake up pretty much every day feeling the same way.
He's the punctuation to my sentence. I'm the grammar to his lines. We're made for each other. Perfectly."
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