Dying.

He reached for his last morning sunrise.

His lower body paralyzed, dirty, wet from the sprinklers. He tried to drag himself across my backyard, back to before, when he was healthy, fast, feared.

He didn’t look anything like the propaganda on pest control trucks. Soft gray fur—the same shade as our dog, Raindrop.

Petite. Pink paws. Teeny claws, all the details they’d include in a Pixar movie.

“Oh, God,” I said. Way better than calling him a rat.

Still dying.

There was some blood. But Google said he was probably poisoned. That he wouldn’t live much longer.

I couldn’t leave him in the backyard, my dogs prowling nearby, him pawing at nowhere.

I crumpled some paper towels and lined the inside of an old Amazon box. I gently shoveled him inside. His whiskers twitched. He pushed and pulled at breath.

I put him in a safe, shady corner of the yard. I covered him with fabric we use to protect plants from the sun.

He scratched at the cardboard.

“It’ll be okay,” I told him.

The plan.

I wondered if this is what I would want for myself—to let my mortal machine run its course in safety and shade of a sunny morning.

I’ve heard of putting a critter out of its misery. But, yikes. Google said letting him pass on in the shade is better than how most people might treat him.

I’d give him time to pass away in peace. Then I’d toss the Amazon box. And it was trash day, so that was convenient.

I’d work the day away, collect him, take the trash out, and go to a special screening of the RuPaul movie Stop That Train—a friend of mine was doing a Q&A.

The problem.

When it was time to end the day, get ready for the screening, I went to the backyard, to the box.

My little gray friend was still pawing. Still breathing. Looking at me, wiggling those cute ears.

“Goddammit!” I said. Then, “Sorry. I know this is your life. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at the situation.”

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Victory.

It was one of those writing days that make me love being alive.

I sat at my desk in the morning with a mug of hot coffee and suddenly it was 7 p.m.

I forgot to eat. I forgot to feel insecure.

I finished a draft of a new play and sent it to a collaborator for notes.

Defeat.

The note was: This is off.

Oh.

Oh no.

The note was smart, generous, correct. Which is the best kind, and the most annoying kind.

I could see it instantly. I wrote a solid piece. A solid first draft. But it was absolutely not the story I really wanted to tell.

I built the wrong house for the moment. Okay. Time to rewrite.

Then a force field went up around my desk.

No way.

I’m not being dramatic (I’m being a little dramatic), but I could not get my butt back in that chair.

I tried everything except sitting down.

I even drove to Los Angeles for a He-Man event with my friend Erin—our friend Mackenzi Lee wrote a great novel about Teela from the Masters of the Universe movie—and on the drive, ideas came. Good ones! Real solutions!

Nope.

I got home and approached my desk and the force field was humming back at me: Nah. Nope. Get out of here.

This went on for days.

The ideas were in my head. The chair was right there. And the distance between them might as well have been from here to Eternia (He-Man’s home planet, look it up).

While in LA, I also saw a friend who talked about ADHD. And because my phone listens to everything (hi, phone), my TikTok algorithm started feeding me ADHD hacks.

Hacks.

One of the hacks stopped my scroll: Make your desk a happy place.

I looked at my desk. It was a monument to obligation. To-do lists facing me like a firing squad. Every visible object whispering you’re behind and will never catch up.

No wonder some animal part of my brain had decided this was not a friendly place.

So I rearranged it.

I moved the to-do lists so they’re not in my face. I pulled my favorite childhood He-Man action figures from my closet and put them on my desk—my new coworkers. I even hung my old He-Man castle on my wall. (Pending husband’s approval.)

Breakthrough.

The force field weakened.

I sat.

I looked at my little plastic friends.

I smiled.

I was in the seat. And getting to work didn’t feel as impossible.

I learned some other helpful hacks.

Here are five things that pulled me out of the ditch this time.

Maybe they’ll help you, too.

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The trigger.

A guy I kinda know sold a work of art for a lot of money.

He was all over newspapers and magazines and, the worst, my Instagram feed.

I felt deep, primal jealousy.

I’ve felt it before. With friends, colleagues, and even my husband.

The spiral.

When I saw my friend’s success, my inner toddler was screaming, “I want that!”

I felt shame for feeling jealous. I felt anger for feeling shame for feeling jealous. I felt sad for feeling anger for feeling shame for feeling jealous.

Then, my sometimes secret weapon: I got curious.

Human and Ancient

Maybe it’s human and ancient to feel jealous. Maybe it used to help us monitor our standing in the tribe.

And our modern tribe—society—seems to value money and recognition.

Then I bought a can of low-sodium black beans at Ralph’s and had an epiphany.

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Danger

He was drowning.

The weight of a paperclip. Legs going in every direction, all six of them.

I offered my finger. He held. I carried him from the pool to the grass and set him down and said, “Have a good life, friend.”

He’s not the first June bug I’ve plucked from my swimming pool. But he’s the first to save me back.

Worthlessness

That night, I’d been struggling writing this very post.

A small thing. That felt like a huge thing.

I couldn’t find the right clump of pixels to tap onto this screen. Every idea felt wrong. Every draft hollow.

I sat in my office—the one I designed with Byrontology in mind, carefully mismatched chairs, a sturdy table, a room to say something meaningful happens here.

And nothing was happening but my computer laughing at me.

I felt worthless.

I was drowning.

Illusion

I stepped outside. Stared at my office. Outside looking in.

Embarrassed. Too hard on myself for not getting the job done. Too hard on myself for being too hard on myself.

June bugs were throwing themselves at lights. And at least one June bug threw himself into the swimming pool.

Maybe he was also chasing a light. A reflection of a light. Chasing an illusion.

Drowning for real. Little legs getting no traction. Spinning in circles.

I saved him. And myself.

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Spitballs are shockingly difficult to get out of your hair.

I can't recall a thing about high school algebra. But I can tell you about the spitballs Scott launched at me from the back seat of the bus.

I can tell you about empty, dirty candy wrappers shoved into the slots of my locker.

And spending the long lunch break alone in the school library just to feel peace.

I had one true friend. Loneliness.

I daydreamed about how things would be different in college.

And they were.

Higher Education

In college, no spitballs.

Extracurricular activities didn’t involve sweating.

I joined a club that planned campus lectures. A few fellow members became my close friends.

Peace? I found it. For a while.

The Shock

My new friends all lived together in the female dorm, so I’d linger outside their building and leave messages on all three answering machines.

When’s breakfast?
When’s lunch?
When’s dinner?
What are we doing tonight?
What are we doing this weekend?

In college, I didn’t eat alone anymore.

Until one day I asked what time we were going for chicken tenders and fries.

Silence.

One of my friends said, “Um.”

She said, “The thing is—”

And then she said, “You’re needy.”

Needy

I’d never heard the word before. But I didn’t need to look it up.

I got my chicken tenders and fries in a Styrofoam container. I took it to my dorm room ate alone that day.

And the next. And the next.

My friend’s comment didn’t feel mean. It felt true.

It rested comfortably beside other things I hated about myself. Like being nerdy. Like being gay.

But those things had less sting in college. Nerdiness was encouraged. Will & Grace was a hit.

But neediness didn’t have such great PR.

Empty, Abandoned, Useless

I tried to be less of a problem.

I stopped asking so many questions.
Stopped lingering outside their dorm.
Stopped assuming I was invited.

On endlessly open nights, I’d walk the campus.

Loyola New Orleans was quiet in a way that felt staged, like a movie set after hours, my own drama.

Empty streetcars toiled along under oak trees on St. Charles Avenue.

Academic buildings had lights on so you could see they were empty, abandoned, useless.

On those nights, all the learning was happening outside, the lessons of my own footsteps. Wondering if my friends were at parties. Wondering if they noticed I wasn’t there.

I turned to my old friend from high school. Loneliness.

Loneliness

He was available. Affable. Had a sense of humor about my Styrofoam dinners. “Where’s mine?” he’d ask.

But I noticed something else. He sure was needy.

My friend Loneliness was always around. He wanted so much of my time. To constantly make himself known. To nag about how to spend each long, solitary hour.

I started to wish my friend Loneliness would branch out. Not be so reliant on me. Why couldn’t he make other friends?

I imagined telling him, “You’re needy.”

I’d say, “I can’t shake you.”

I’d ask, “Why does your attention seem intense, heavy, desperate? Like your life depends on being with others? Like your safety depends on it?”

Suddenly, Loneliness reminded me of something. And it shook me. And it healed me.

CULT MEMBERS ONLY

Deeper confessions, revelations, and resolutions not for public.

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Here’s what’s waiting on the other side for paid subscribers:

• A welcome gift, instantly. A digital copy of my little book about survival, Everything Is Stupid Okay Fine I’ll Keep Going. Sent to your email the moment you join.

You also get:

• The personal stuff. Deeper confessions and revelations—how I process feeling jealous, lonely, stuck. The stuff I won’t publish publicly.

• My survival kit. The things that keep me from drowning on a Tuesday. I’ll send you a link. Sometimes it helps.

• Good karma. Your support keeps this sometimes sad gay writer going. I don’t take it lightly.

What people say:

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Cheers.

A paid subscription costs less than a weekly cup of coffee (or a martini — I see you!).

As Carrie Fisher used to tell me, “Take your broken heart and make art.”

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Not numb out. Not scroll.

Just… go somewhere.

Feel something. Be inside a story. Care about people I’ve never met.

These are the podcasts I go to.

The first one pulls me in every time. Truly one of the best writers/storytellers I’ve ever heard.

The others are like close friends I can turn to when I need a mood change.

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Most stories—novels, films, television shows, and even gossip between friends—have a simple, foolproof structure.

I don’t reinvent the wheel.

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I was crying in my bathtub and posted a note on Facebook.

It was the day Carrie Fisher died.

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Scary.

Our dog Shirley is dying—in my mind.

She’s perfectly healthy according to the vet.

According to x-rays and bloodwork and diplomas.

But I have a feeling.

The problem.

We adopted Shirley when she was three years old because our energetic puppy, Raindrop, seemed to need a playmate.

Shirley was the shelter’s go-to for training and calming other dogs.

Soon, she was training all of us on matters of love and life.

There was extortion. There was crying.

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I think.

Here are postcards from my marriage.

Five years of marriage and something is off. Five years, I think—Steven keeps track of dates. I’m bad at math and directions and seasons and intersections and daylight savings and remembering to turn off the fan in our bedroom. Our marriage doesn’t feel like ones from TV or movies.

When nothing else helps,
I made something you can hold.

See it here.

I never dated anyone seriously before him. I’d go two weeks, then get bored. A therapist asked if I wanted a clown or a boyfriend. I met Steven in 2013 (I think—he’d know). We laughed constantly. At words like grundle. At stupid dog videos. At each other. I told that therapist I found both.

One night I was exhausted, but we were supposed to have a date. I canceled last minute and assumed he’d fuss like others had. Instead, he said, “No problem. I’m here to make your life better, not more stressful.” I moved in with him.

We wanted careers as artists. We stayed up late writing, then reading each other’s work, saying it’s great, keep going! When one lost hope, the other took the torch, said this will be funny one day, and we’d laugh about that. I wasn’t thinking 10 years ahead. I just wanted another hour.

I wanted his family to love me. I worried about my clothes, jokes, hair. I asked him, what if your nieces and nephew think I’m the clown in our relationship? He said “they do and that’s what they love about you.” And that made me smile. A big red clown smile. Matched his.

Something is off. The word marriage isn’t enough. For our art. For our dogs Raindrop and Shirley and Belle. For nighthawks eating bugs over the pool. For the backyard gopher we named Wellington. For how he can’t load the dishwasher correctly. For when I can’t remember how many years. For another hour. Love, B

Byrontology is a hug.
It comes to your email.
Never junk.
Free option available.
Includes welcome gift.

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When nothing else helps,
I made something you can hold.

See it here.

Five years of marriage and something still doesn’t line up.

I thought I knew what this was supposed to feel like.

In this episode, I tell the story of:

• Meeting a man who was never boring.

• The moment I realized he was here to stay.

• How we built a life out of art, humor, and a gopher in the backyard.

This is a story about commitment, confusion, and what love actually feels like when it doesn’t follow the script.

Byrontology: Stories. You. Feel.

→ Read the full story, see pictures, get my free book at Byrontology.com

The storm.

The weatherman made the words “squall line” and “dew point” sound sexy.

He’d wave his arms over a map of the town and tell us what to wear.

“It’s gonna be hot, hot, hot.”

He was magnetic. Charming. Handsome.

But I didn’t just watch him on TV.

Sunny forecast.

The weatherman and I worked at the same TV station.

It was a small town—so small we also lived next door to each other.

When I moved into my apartment, he helped me carry my sofa up the stairs.

His smell lingered. It was not of cologne or laundry detergent. It was of sweat and sunshine and something alive. A scent you want to roll around in.

“Get ready for summer temperatures,” he’d tell viewers. “Things are about to get really hot.”

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A TV weatherman showed me sunny days and a broken heart.

I was 22, newly out of the closet, and convinced I had found something real. Until a storm cloud moved in.

In this episode, I tell the story of:

• the small-town weatherman who showed me some firsts

• the moment everything broke

• and the one question from a child therapist that changed how I understand love, jealousy, and pain

This is a story about early love, self-deception, and what happens when you finally question your own feelings.

Byrontology helps overthinkers and the existentially exhausted feel less alone and find meaning in the absurd, the awful, and the everyday.

→ Get the full post, pictures, video, or visit the bookstore at Byrontology.com

This is a very special Byronbook I wrote after moving my mom into assisted living.

She was cool. I spiraled.

This book documents what helped me find myself again.

Anytime I’m feeling gray, I turn to these very personal lessons from life, therapy, Carrie Fisher, and at least one self-help guru from the 1980s.

I wrote it, designed it, printed and folded and stapled it, and can mail you one if you want.

Hold this Byronbook

Get a physical copy I hand made for you →

Get Your Copy

Already a Paid Subscriber

Instantly download and/or read here →

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This is a very special Byronbook I wrote after moving my mom into assisted living.

She was cool. I spiraled.

This book documents what helped me find myself again.

Anytime I’m feeling gray, I turn to these very personal lessons from life, therapy, Carrie Fisher, and at least one self-help guru from the 1980s.

I wrote, designed, printed, folded, and stapled it, and can mail you one if you want.

Hold this Byronbook

Get a physical copy I hand made for you →

Already a Paid Subscriber

Instantly download and/or read this Byronbook here →

Read more

This is a Byronbook I wrote because Carrie Fisher once told me, “Take your broken heart and go make art.”

It’s about a time I like a failure. And how I found my way back.

It’s about perseverance, being creative, facing setbacks and looking for meaning in life. Sometimes it helps.

I wrote, designed, printed, folded, stapled, and can mail you one if you want.

Hold this Byronbook

Get a physical copy I hand made for you →

Already a Paid Subscriber

Instantly download and/or read this Byronbook here →

Read more

I can’t think clearly. Everything feels heavier than it should.

When that happens, I don’t guess anymore. I pull some books off my shelf.

This first one I recommend is always within arm’s reach. It’s tattered, warped from the bathtub, and stained from crying.

It changed my life.

The others I use when that one isn’t enough.

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His stories are propulsive, immersive, and catnip to my brain.

I’ve read him for years trying to figure out how he does it.

In this book, he shows you.

The others taught me how to actually do it myself.

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