Don’t Skimp on the Marmalade

That Was the Week That Was: June 30 – July 5

This week wasn’t loud. It lingered.
In the smear of marmalade on toast.
In the buzz of clippers that cut too close.
In the blinking lights of a Christmas that came early—because waiting wasn’t the point.

But it also marched.

It put on sneakers and crossed a bridge in Budapest. It stood up in a week when lawmakers sat down on justice. It reminded us that hope doesn’t wait for permission—it walks, side by side, with ordinary people doing extraordinary things.

These stories didn’t shout.
They stayed.
A father teaches through toast.
A little boy teaches through chaos.
A woman rewrites her own eulogy—and goes viral doing it.
And somewhere in the middle, a cousin named Emily writes about defiance in verse.

The throughline?

– Grief that edits, but doesn’t erase.
– Rituals that ground, even when the ground shifts.
– Hope that walks quietly—but unmistakably—across a bridge.
– Love, offered not in grand declarations, but in small, deliberate acts.

What we carry. What we cut.
What we choose to hold, even when the good comics are gone.

Let’s walk it back together.

That Was the Week That Was: June 30 – July 5

Hope Wears Sneakers

Hope as protest, stitched in sneakers and silence. A banned parade, a bridge crossed, and a letter from Cousin Em. What begins as defiance becomes something softer—and stronger: presence with purpose.

Same as Last Time

Hair as identity, armor, and cautionary tale. A once-beloved barber, a mistranslation, and the buzz cut that undid everything. What begins with style ends with memory—and a box of copper dye no one asked for.

Chapter Seven – Holding On [Narrated]

Grief finds its form in marmalade, razors, and blinking Christmas jumpers. A chapter about presence, ritual, and the unexpected joy of a defiant holiday celebration.

The Cracks Beneath: Meet Liam

A portrait of the wild, bright-hearted little brother who reminds us that joy and sorrow are never far apart.

Shame, Shame, Shame [Narrated]

A bill passed. A cost counted. A poem that doesn’t soften the blow. This is what betrayal looks like when it’s signed into law.

Just Once. Just Enough.

A comic. A quiet walk. A father who said little but gave everything. Touch, memory, and the kind of love that doesn’t flinch.

Grief, Autogenerated

An AI eulogy generator meets one very human editor. What starts as satire becomes something stranger and more tender. Because some things shouldn’t be left to default settings.