My dad disappeared when I was 10. Ok, so, he didn't vanish forever. That'd be a bummer. But it would explain my prodigious therapy bill. Instead, my Pappy just dropped off the grid for a couple of hours so he could secure a compound. This is the point in the post where I issue one of those "trigger warnings." If you're not down with accidental animal sacrifices or other forms of religious skullduggery, now's the time to bail. Because I'm about to reveal that I once unwittingly served as an adolescent acolyte of one of the Midwest's most prominent Evangelical
Bekah Rigby
A recovering journalist who recently moved to the deep-fried South and is reveling in the freedom to have opinions and say "fuck." Oh, and cats. Because, duh.