I’ve been married for two months, so I know pretty much everything there is to know about my husband. Everything except for, you know, what he’s like in the morning.
The religious pretense and mumbo jumbo is kept to a minimum. But that’s hard to keep up when we get to communion. Because it is weird.
The men and women writing and producing these shows are the missing element. They are giving us what we are hungry for: an intelligent and civil discussion.
And I’m thinking about how much I feel like Frankenstein’s monster, some days—pieced together, a compilation of chemicals without the animation that makes a life.
This girl really isn’t my type, but I’ve heard of people just being friends from Tinder stuff, so I think, Maybe we can have a let’s-be-friends conversation at some point.
I couldn’t see where the lake ended and land began. The white/grey of the snow and ice blended perfectly with the grey of the sky making it impossible to tell where the sky began.
Tin: Do you remember when we ate Chef Boyardee ravioli cold, out of the can, at 1:00 a.m. on January first? You got out of bed and brought it from the kitchen triumphantly, with two forks.
It’s not a pretty place. The hazy opium dens and the tobacco-smoke saloons disappeared from dusty California mining towns long ago, and they’ve since set up shop here. You want opium? You got it. How about Craigslist prostitutes? pirated textbooks? fake I.D.s or stolen credit cards?
Before New York, having an umbrella blow inside out was a fluke, something astonishing that might happen in really bad weather. Mainly something that happened in cartoons or Mary Poppins.
We admire the people who adventure, who scale mountains, who travel to faraway places with nothing but optimism, peanut butter, and probably not enough experience.