hawaiian pizza

Last night, I drifted to sleep thinking of a short nonfiction piece I'd like to write. Flash nonfiction, perhaps. A brief scene of the wider story.

And then I thought that somebody will probably be offended by this story. It happens sometimes.

• "Why didn't you write about me?"
• "Why did you say this about me?"
• "That's not how it happened/Did that actually happen?/That didn't happen."

1. I just didn't. Sorry.
2. Because I wanted to.
3. I have an excellent memory. I'm not saying I'll remember every conversation verbatim. But put me up against most people I know, and you'll see that I hold the details they overlooked. It's how I did well on tests and used quotes on in-class essays that didn't require quotes. I remember.

I'll take out the names, but I'll still write what I want.

I feel okay with this because I'm not setting out to hurt anyone or air unairable truths. By no means am I writing exposes. I want to write these stories because they are funny, or sad, and I think others will get something from them. They are the stories I find fulfillment in writing.