Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Sean Dietrich 
There is a US law stipulating that whenever you’re having a good day a pharmaceutical commercial must appear.
It will be a frightening one, too. Sometimes the same startling commercial will be replayed three, four, maybe five times. That’s the law.
The 18-year-old young woman walked into the office. She was nervous. Her hands were trembling. Which was really saying something, because this was a young woman accustomed to being on stage. She wanted to become a serious actress someday.
I woke up thinking about you. There I was, at 4:41 a.m., sitting in my living room, wondering about you.
I heard the doctor gave you bad news. And I couldn’t help but imagine how afraid you must be.
I have a confession to make. I am addicted to my cellphone. I’m not proud of it. I don’t like admitting it. But I’m coming clean, publicly.
It’s a mess, that’s what it is. When you land in Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Third World International Airport, you’re walking into a battle zone.
Sean answers his mail, more graciously than should be expected.
A gas station. Rural east Texas. A young man sits in front of the ice machine, and he’s babbling nonsense. He is shirtless. He is dirty. People pass him as they walk into the convenience store.
But one old man doesn’t.
I was in a hotel with a few hundred Mennonites.
I walked into the hotel at noon. At first, I was confused inasmuch as the lobby was full of cape dresses, plain suits, and broad-brimmed hats. Some of the older men had beards, some were clean-shaven. The women wore head coverings.
I thought maybe I’d taken a wrong turn on the interstate.
Dearly Beloved,
Today is Yom HaShoah. The Jewish holy day for remembering the Holocaust. And I must admit, dear friends, standing before you all, here in this beautiful synagogue, wearing this tiny hat, I am feeling very out of place. And humbled.
She helped people die. Or maybe you’d say she helped them transition to the other side—whatever that means. She’s not a big believer in “the other side.”
Either way, she’s been helping people pass away for a long time. She has seen more death than most.
6 million Americans watched the historic event on television. The Orion spacecraft, named Integrity, is estimated to return to Earth at 8:07 P.M. The little boy who lives inside me can hardly contain himself.
My first concept of robots came from watching The Jetsons before school in my underpants. My boyhood morning routine consisted of sitting on the sofa in my tighty-whities, eating Cap’n Crunch, watching television, and listening to my mother say, “Get those underpants off my couch, Mister!”
I like ducks. I watch the same two mallards visit this area of Lake Martin. Almost every morning.
I don’t know if they’re married. Ducks are seasonally monogamous. So this could just be a one-season stand.
Still, they are my friends. I guess they’re here to find food. Sort of like going to Piggly Wiggly with your spouse, minus the buggy, and the rolling of your spouse’s eyes whenever one of you places six jars of something you don’t need into the basket because it’s BOGO.
The night I was born, my mother took me into her arms and decided that she was going to name me Elvis.
My aunt recalls: “Your mama loved Elvis. Plus, you were a Capricorn, you know. Elvis and Jesus were Capricorns.”
“Yeah, I got a story for you,” said the old woman in the nursing home.
She had midnight skin, dandelion-fuzz hair, and she smoked Newports. Each day she liked to park her wheelchair in the parking lot where she could face the supermarket, and watch all the happy customers walk in and out of Publix.
My wife and I are in training mode. We walk 10 or 12 miles, several times per week, practicing for our second Camino. We will walk across Spain soon, and we need to get in shape.
Hello. I am a sea turtle. We turtles don’t actually have names. But you can call me Squirt. Pleased to meet you.
Maybe you’ve never met a talking sea turtle before. Well, I’d like to change that.
The year is 250 A.D. It’s Good Friday. Although, technically, there is no “Good Friday.” Not for another hundred years.
How I dropped my phone into the depths of Lake Martin is still a great and confusing mystery which evidently involves beer.
