Tuesday, September 2, 2014


And in my haste, I have loved you.

In my haste, I have smiled at you in the infancy of our time together and felt the stirrings of something different. Something new. Something patient...

And I'm not patient. 

It's refreshing.

There is a wonderful place in the world for those like you. You live in the finest stuff of life. You, my darling, are the quality over quantity I have quietly searched for. 

In the moments of silence we shared, we both said so much. Words were not needed between the two of us to enjoy each other's company and that was the stuff of life I needed.

You are a complement to me. 


Utterly fascinating.

I look forward to sharing the stuff of life with you.

Besides, my Moleskine is coming tomorrow and there are some more dreams I would like to put to paper. 

And it's mine. Just mine.

Only mine. 

That leather book and I are going to be on some adventures together. We have a vision that needs a home. 

I'm feeling spicy and gentle and confident today and it's wonderful. 

Good things on the horizon. 

Good everything.



The fillings of life. 

The February Seventh I've wanted and looked for. 

But, even then, more.

The stuff of life. 

The muchness I've wanted.

The slow heating when you make candy. 

Hit the right temp and you can make anything. 

The patience I'm still trying to force myself to understand and do. 

And I'm loving it. 

Keep my attention, please. 

I'll see you again around the corner.

Friday, June 13, 2014

What just happened...


Just wow.

I have nothing to give to this.

I feel blank.



Is this it?

Well, that sucks.

I guess this is the end.


Tuesday, May 6, 2014


I once thought that I could write a love story.

It seemed so simple at the time. The puzzle pieces fit together and I had this dream that is how it would be: that a-ha moment where as kids we finally put that one final piece into our thousand piece Disney puzzles...

While the idea of love is so simple, not messy or complicated, I have this odd little inkling that I'm glad it's worked out the way it has. I'm strangely happy that it's never what it seems. It's full of quick punches to the gut, weird disappointments that have nothing to do with the other party, and moments where you wonder if you're just... a little crazy.

I once wrote this love story about a night similar to this one--warm, not too humid, two people who smiled at each other and wondered who the other was. A silly little story of a stubborn woman who still has a hard time letting others in and a man who was new to the city. Yellow stringed lights and an inquiry of a beer later. In my story she said yes and they fell madly in love over little laughs and a night full of adventures.

In my story that man and that woman were uncomplicated--were not people. They didn't have pasts, obstacles, anything uncommon or any qualms about the future. No uncertainty.

It's clear to see that I don't know how those kinds of stories work in real life.

I'm not in a shiny, new fairy tale.

However, I know a few little things that leave me here, on a night similar to the one where we first met: warm, slightly humid; a hint of a new season to come. In the discovery of you, of learning you, I met a part of myself that I have completely fallen in love with. Instead of the love story of you and I, I found the final piece of the love story of myself and I.

In the songs I hear that I think of you, I think of the story I found for myself.

Windows down, Charlotte heat and wind blowing in my hair, through my fingers, my clothes. My ribs ache with the feeling of being alive and young. Every sense I own bleeding the songs I listen to and writing stories around them.

It smells like summer now and the warmth of it is seeping into my bones. My skin pricks with the idea of all the season has to bring for me. Lake, boat, jet ski, family, jumping off docks, running into the sea's waves, my feet burrowing into the cold sand, my shoulders tingling with a light sunburn, the feel of a cold can of beer on my finger tips... the heat of a good cigar between my fingers as I smoke it down to the nub, the warmth of scotch winding its way down into my stomach, and the hazy smoke enveloping me as I slide down into the lovely edge of the world I carved out for myself.

I dream of bringing you on these adventures with me.

Lindsay dreams.

I close my eyes and I can almost see them playing out... the smells and sights of sharing my life with you.

It would be magical.

I wish you were around for more of the adventures that I'd like to bring you on. That we would go on half of the adventures we talk about going on.

I want to go to the beach with you, and the mountains, and into the twilight.

We come with bruises of every shape and size, of light yellows and dark purples, indigos, and fading blacks. They're mental bruises that we can't wipe away and likely never will. I'm not afraid of them, but I know I prod them out of curiosity. Out of wanting to know. Your past is yours. I would never ask what you're not willing to share. Hell, there's a future in front of us that we could make while wiping away part of the bruises of the past. I feel the push away from me and I quietly wait, hoping that one day you'll see what I mean. Time tells all.

Until then, I listen to 400 Lux and I think of the times I've picked you up and you've picked me up. We always have each other's backs.

I think of my arm out of the passenger seat in your car, feeling the entire world on the palm of my hand. I think of how many times I've wanted to reach out and hold your hand while you drape your fingers over your steering wheel and talk about nothing while we drive down the streets of our neighborhoods. I think of our complicated friendship that I still know I screw up sometimes.

I've crawled out of bed and put pants on because I've wanted to see you.

I have no idea of how you feel about me. But this, ultimately, isn't about you. I don't expect anything, anyways.

This is about me.

I'm finally learning how to trust everyone and to let them into my parts of my heart that I'm not always comfortable sharing. I'm finally letting people see my bruises. I'm finally in love with the bruised peach that I am. Sweet on the inside, soft, full of life, memories, and with a few spots that even the best farmers couldn't hide. Imperfect, and by that standard, beautiful. Once I was told I was a viking and that was the best compliment I ever received. I forge ahead. I need adventures.

Little thoughts like that keep me the way I am.

I dream of the day someone tells me, "anything you want."

I dream of "anything for you."

I dream of the day that I am just as willing to say the same thing to them.

I like the idea that I have never really ever said no to you. That's stunning to me. I tell people "no" all the time. They don't make me feel uncomfortable. They don't criticize me. They don't call me out on my bullshit or ever push me to be better and that just pisses me off. I push myself to the brink all of the time. I want someone to tell me to be better, to work harder, to keep challenging myself to kick ass. I want you to make me uncomfortable because you don't just give in. You ask questions that force me to think differently.

I don't always agree with you. In fact, I've often disagreed, but I've never seen you hold that against me. You have simply given me your view and left it at that. I have always listened.

Sometimes I don't listen well, but I remember it in my heart. This has been a slow burning, learning kind of heat.

Often I have wondered, "Who is he, really? Who is he, that won't always tell me everything?" Instead of prodding, I have taken that mentality home. "Well, who am I? I don't tell him everything. In fact, he likely knows little about me. I will try harder next time to give him more information. He is not obligated to tell me everything." I think about it quite often. In thinking that, I have learned a lot about myself. I have been spoiled, mean sometimes, demanding, and insufferable. Young, stubborn, selfish. I've finally become wise by learning, by being uncomfortable, by exploding through my personal issues and overcoming the thoughts that hold me back. I have forced myself to open and to swallow my pride.

I wonder if you've gone through similar revelations.

I see stories I've told you about myself that I never shared with anyone before. I sometimes share them multiple times in a row before I'm politely reminded that I shared them before. My thoughts cheat on me.

I spent a year alone traveling and never really talked about all of my stories. I've finally started sharing them and I'm finally feeling up to the reminiscing. I'm finally up to sharing the ridiculous life ventures I never talked about before.

I like to share them especially with him.

Stories still keep with me, snippets of time that I can't erase from my memory.

Your finger on my leg, jokingly sliding my dress up my leg, me too embarrassed (and honestly pleasantly surprised) to say anything witty except to just blush and mumble.

A first kiss shared on the downtown Charlotte streets that I had been hoping for for far too long.

Me making an ass of myself in Asheville. The shame I felt both that night and the next morning because I ruined what could have been my chance to say something about how I felt. Maybe do something about it.

How many times I've sat, way too quietly, saying nothing, next to you because I sometimes just never knew what to say and was far more interested in what you had to say.

The one time I walked away, irritated, because I didn't want to be treated like a lady by you. I wore that beautiful red dress, it was cold out, and all I wanted was for you to tell me how pretty I looked and then kiss me--and really, really mean it.

Every single time I've looked at you and thought just how utterly stunning your eyes are.

Lindsay things.

Like I've said before, though, these aren't things I ultimately expect you to think about. They're things that have shaped and taught me. They've made me who I am.

He likely has never thought of me in that way, and that's perfectly okay. Even though he's made an impact on me, and I may have made one on him in some way or another, I have pushed the envelope enough for me to think that there isn't a future there.

I've never asked a man on a date. I've asked him.... or well, I think I have. Perhaps I'm just not good at that. Perhaps I'm not good at explaining my intentions. I also don't press people to reciprocate feelings they don't necessarily have. That's only fair, right?

In the end, I have this stunning story of one of my best friends in my head and the impact they have had on me.

I still see dreams swimming in my head.

I see me reaching out for his hand, grabbing it with a smile on my face, and dragging him into the tides of my adventures. I see his eyes and his smile as he falls into the waves beside me.

I see us hurrying away from the ocean because the high tide is coming and we're running to the dunes laughing, our eyes shining against the stars in the night sky over our heads.

I see us falling away into the twilight, the world at our fingertips.

I see us telling stories together, and it's beautiful.

I see you, and in you, I see me.

It's exhilarating and I'm happy I found at least one love story--the one I looked to find for so long. The love story to me, from me. Because of you.

It tastes like chocolate.

Thursday, March 6, 2014


The trains roll by.

I can hear them softly past my headphones...

Melody Gardot's "Some Lessons" is in my ears and Sarah Ash's Lord of Snow and Shadows is by my side in bed.

I smell a lingering bit of a 2008 Summer Series Rocky Patel cigar on my skin and my dress. It's soft and is mingling with my perfume that reminds me of orchids and honeysuckle. 

I'm dreaming softly of beaches and mountain cabins. They fill my thoughts of laziness and the fluidity of life. Simplicity.

This fuzziness that has nothing to do with beer is quite nice. It's soft sheets. It's a good book. It's jazz. It's blues. It's the good company that I had all night. It's the stories people told me tonight. It's the rain patter that's sneaking past my windows to my ears. 

It's the stretching like a cat and hooking your claws into the bits of life you refuse to lose. 

It's the love story I'm about to lose myself in.

Friday, February 28, 2014

National Rare Disease Day 2014 -- Feb. 28th


I'm Lindsay Sprick.

I have many things that make me who I am. I have an identity. We all do. We are fascinating.

I have an extra thing. Most people do. But everyone has really interesting names for their weird things. We try so hard to define us. Our faults. Our defaults. Our definitions. Our thesauruses.

I have Pityriasis Rubra Pilarus. Type III, IV, or V. We don't really know. We never really will. Those of us with this disease will likely never know truly if there is a type, if we truly categorize with it, or if we really know what having this disease means. It's this checklist of frustration that we can't seem to conquer.

It's so alienating, it's disgusting. 

One in 600,000 people can get PRP. One in 1.6 million to one in eight million can get type III-V of PRP. That's what I have.

We're alone.

It's scary. 


I recently had a glimmer of hope. 

I was emailed a number, a name, and a desire--someone in South Carolina wanted to meet another PRP-er. There really aren't many of us. We're a weird science.

So, for me, this was a terrifying thing.

Would I relate to this woman?

She has children.... I don't.

She has a husband.... I don't.

She has a similar but different type than I do.

Will she really know what I'm going through? I hope so.

Will... will we understand each other?

The answer was a very simple one: Listen. Learn. Tell each other your stories.

We both have amazing stories. 

.... and this entire time we lived an hour and a half from each other. 

She loves craft beer, just like me. So does her husband.

She is a redhead. So am I. 

She's just as strong as I am, if not stronger. No.... she's stronger.

She wanted to meet me, just as much as I wanted to meet her.

She is my long lost sister. Her desire to know about everything, to try everything, and to share her experiences with anyone who will fight the way she does was easily the most inspiring moment of my life.

January 19th completely changed my life.

It not only gave me hope.... it gave me some purpose.

Not only did Ginny relate to me, we ended up feeling like we knew each other our whole lives.

We both knew that grey feeling.... that lost feeling.

When you're always in pain... it's not easy.

People with PRP struggle with a few common factors--pain, fatigue, and visibility.

Pain constantly. You just get used to it (well, we try). It's all in your skin... your nerves. Honestly, you develop a strong resistance to it. A numbness. It doesn't make it easier... and mind over matter gets you pretty far, but not the entire way. We all find our way to deal with that frustration.

Fatigue. Oh.... daily. Daily. I speak so often of how much I love my bed. I really, really, really, love my bed. Cold weather ruins me. It literally takes every ounce of energy I have and leaves it at fall's feet. I grasp back at it, but I know that it won't be back until spring. There is nothing more calming to me than a hot cup of tea in my hands, a bundle of covers, and a few movies to watch.

Visibility. This is hard for me to talk about. Red... everything. Red. Burning. Embarrassment. Pain. Bleeding cracks, washing them out in the shower the next day.... Trying to moisturize constantly because if you don't, someone will notice. Everyone notices. The ridicule in middle school and high school is the worst of it.... young people are very creative. I grew up fast to combat it... Understanding was my armor. It helped but... it never made it that easy.

Winter to Spring is so frustrating. I'm so close to being perfectly healthy again.

That bloody gopher is my worst enemy. Tell him to hibernate elsewhere....

However, don't get me wrong. I love seeing everyone (groundhogs included), cheersing glasses, getting excited and partying it up! I really do! Jazzes me up and gets me feisty.

I also hit walls.

Sometimes I just don't have the energy. I get so tired.

Cold weather physically hurts me. It hurts.

But the sun?

Oh my dear goodness gracious, give me a beach for two weeks and I will come back perfectly fine. I heal on the beach. I heal in sand, salt, and heat. It's like getting drunk and waking up hungover... except you wake up better than when you went to sleep. It's this really cool feeling... you feel like you're sun drunk. It's so.... good.

It makes me stretch like a cat and grab my headphones and a good book just so I have an excuse to lay on the beach.

SPF 50 for life, yo.

(every hour and a half, cause I burn)

It feels like life again.

It feels like energy.

It feels like healthy.

Whatever my point was when I started this... I just want you all to know this:

There are people who everyday battle incredibly strange and off the wall rare diseases.

They struggle with them every single day.

Far worse than I do.

Far worse.

I will never have a cure. It's not going to happen. Nor will they.

But one day, someone might. And that's the purpose of National Rare Disease Day.

Just... Listen. Listen to your neighbor. Your friend who may have a disease they can't hide. Your friend who suffers quietly and looks so normal. Your friend who knows that they don't have a shot at a cure.

Money rules the world.

We don't have enough money to find our cures. 

All we ask for is one more person to understand the fight. 

Maybe one day we can find help for those who are so debilitated that they need a real friend. Who won't judge. Who won't shy away.

We're alone. 

We also want to live. 

We have so much life to live. 

All we want is your help getting there.

It's Rare Disease Day.

Reach out.


We have so many stories we're more than willing to share.

Saturday, September 21, 2013

Craft Beer, September 2013

Every once in a while, it storms.

And when it storms, it may pour.

And when it pours, you may get wet.

It stormed tonight.

Tonight, a front stretched all the way from the Gulf of Mexico to Montreal. The same rain fell on Charlotte, on Baltimore, on DC, on Philly, on Rehoboth Beach, and on Atlanta. We all drank, sang, and lived that same rain tonight.

Tonight, it rained on Brickstore, and Cypress Street, and Square Pub, and Eulogy, and Barcade, and Lil’ Miss Whiskies, and Blind Tiger, and Monk’s CafĂ©, and Jose Pistolas, and Varga Bar, and so many more. Blind Squirrel. Busy Bee. Raleigh Times. Tasty Bev. Bottle Revolution. The list barely even starts.

Tonight, it poured.

Tonight, we reminded you of what community is. It’s widespread, and wild. It’s crazy and it’s untamed. It’s unexpected. It’s what, as Chickspeare did in the rain today at NoDa; completely and utterly wild.

And yet… there were people.

People who traversed the puddles, and the sprinkles, and the downpour. People who drove through the steady downpour and joined the others whom they may have known or not for a beer. For entertainment and silliness.

People who, no matter what the weather would be at the brewery on Saturday night would show. And that is what makes the community the way it is. You can’t stop the passion and the craziness, and the best thing about it all—the people.

As the rain continues reminding me that it’s Saturday night, and I should be downstairs watching TV shows like Breaking Bad and Futurama, instead I’m sitting here in this chair and I remind you of this awesome anthem.

You, are like my father.

You, you are the future.

You can drink craft beer like the 10% of us that do.

And you, if not now, if not in six months, if not in a year, one day you will look back on this moment and you will think of this.

Because you will remember what our beer tastes like.

And you won’t remember theirs.

And that, my friends, is the most important part of our story.

And that is what will bring you from a Mich Ultra drinker to a Hop Drop & Roll drinker a year and three months later.

When you put your first sour to your lips and you tell the ones you love, “this doesn’t taste like beer.”

Remember this:

Beer comes in many flavors.

Just like you do.

And that’s how it should be.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Spring fires bring May flowers...

The fire raged in her.

She sat, somewhat tired and somewhat pensive, against the soft pillows and linens.

Her shoulders burned a quiet, and yet comforting warmth. The sun had reminded her of what summer felt like. It resurrected her.

She reveled in the past smoke that now tinted her pale skin, and the light burn of mint against the strong tobacco she felt when she brushed her teeth.

Her stomach, still filled with warmth from the dark red wine settled her and comforted her.

Her mind spoke to her, telling her of stories she read and those still developing in her own worlds.

Her heart yearned longingly for a story of its own, and quiet patience reminded it of the true epic yet to come.

She heard the calm wind outside coming off of the briny coast and she smiled. "It is always the beach," she thought, "always the ocean that reminds me to breathe and to calm."

The warmth caused her to smile and blissfully comforted her, wrapping her amongst its lapping flames.

She blazed the spring's, yet almost summer's, fire.

She felt born to this season.

It was, ultimately, hers.

Born of this warmth, to it, it truly was the thing that sprung her to life each year.

She was, and remained, the phoenix.

What was she, if not this bird of fire and immutable rebirth?

She rises, yearly, to remind the people of the warmth of heart and purpose. She rises, yearly, to remind her of all of her strength and of the dance of fire.

She teases, she smokes, she may sometimes extinguish... but never has she completely gone out.

Fire always returns.

That is the way it is, and the way it remains.

All she needs is a spark to remember where or what she is.

All she needs is a bit of paper, a scrap of wood, or a dry grass to return.

You cannot quiet fire.

You may think you tame it, and you may think you create it, but the truth is that it is always there, waiting for its revival.

She believes in fire.

She believes in the licking flames and the returning embers.

Fire burns, and as often as it singes others, it singes herself. For not believing in the power of fire, she loses control over it. It is a headstrong thing, and always will be.

"You must always believe."

The flames licked up her sides and back, over her shoulders and into her heart. The rippling tide of each feather bore her into a new realm of confidence. Slowly, she built her wings.

Slowly, she constructed what would be hers.

She pruned and plucked out the dark spots.

No doubt.

No fear.

No insecurity.

No pride.

No frustration.

She built the wings from her heart and she unfurled them, feeling the warmth surround her and comfort her.

She knew who she was and she reveled in that.

She sat amongst the linens and pillows and her confidence did not leave her.

The truth was that she felt the way it settled into her bones.

She is a phoenix, a bird of fire, and no one can stop her from returning.

Hello again, spring.

Hello again, summer.

You've met your match.


About Me

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On a mission to find the best stuff of life. Food, drink, lifestyle. Key: Quality over quantity every single day.