Monthly Archives: June 2016
We had been bearing all of these trials patiently enough, however, until the day the toilet started belching. I want you to imagine what that must sound like, and after you have, I want you to imagine me hearing those sounds alone in the apartment—which coincidentally, did not contain a plunger.
Regardless, it’s foolish of me to believe that a panda can be anything but cute and cuddly. If I fail to see and acknowledge the less-than-cutesy aspects, I remain in a state of partiality and partial truth.
Although Christmas in June is not an actual tradition, you’ve been good this year so I want to reward you with the gift of silence, and Nick Offerman.
It’s all part of the character, that character we’ve all met at some point or another: so-called professionals who are no good at what they claim to be at, like a magician who can’t hide a card.
By the end of the night, the musician had burned himself out, Ed was snoozing on a table in the back, and a thirteen-year-old girl who’d somehow snuck in was able to snag a selfie with “the Michigan Boys.”
It’s not always easy chasing after whichever field God points you toward, especially if the words “vile” or “sordid” sometimes apply.
I know adults aren’t easy to trust, and teachers least of all, but please trust me. Trust that I know what I’m talking about, even just a little bit. Trust that I might, on occasion, be right when you’re wrong.
If you are looking for a powerful, enlightening, and comforting essay about the devastating loss our community suffered on June 12th, 2016, I cannot find the words for you right now.
Hillary has been the target of thousands of sexist attacks on Twitter, including some in which she is blamed for her husband’s affair. Call me crazy, but I find it difficult to imagine a male politician getting blamed for his wife’s improprieties.
What I really want the smiling broadcasters to say is that there is no silver lining. This is not an opportunity or a warning call or a new beginning. It is an ending, and endings should be mourned.
10. If it’s broken, don’t buy a new one: try to fix it. Hot glue, superglue, epoxy, solder. In that order.
Jessica, meanwhile, cut against the interpretive grain. She saw in Stephen’s lurching movements, his silent fury, his body at war with itself, something that looked like her.
Dear Reader, I’m writing to you from my bathrobe. In a window seat. In a castle. In England.
But the author of the Vespasian Psalter and his fellow blessing traditionalists needn’t despair. If blessings could jump the shark on the heels of one rapper, could they possibly be redeemed by another?
Because once you’ve been compared to mayonnaise, things can only get better.
I was not just leaving behind a friend, but someone who loves the parts of me I don’t. Sometimes adulthood just feels like a dawn of frequent partings.
I don’t pray anymore. I feel like I should want to, but I don’t. I bow my head in church and before meals, but those are more habits than prayers.
A lot of commercials lately seem to be taking on social issues, and I think it’s important for us to see our world through the lens of an advertiser.
Entitled. Selfish. Hostile. Angry. Fearful.
Strangers think it’s “cool” that I lived there, which, whatever it means, isn’t true. It was something else entirely.
The story goes, that a girl was traveling abroad… either that or she was in Grand Rapids… or Boston or Austin or Mauston. Which is in Wisconsin… anyways, minor details…
Captain America: The Winter Soldier actually raises two themes that the viewer can wrestle with and reflect on: Faith and Choice.
I reveled in my first watch of The OC because I wasn’t allowed to watch it in middle and high school. Shows about teenagers having sex were strictly off-limits. (However, watching Jack Bauer torture terrorists was totally fine.)
You know that saying, “Mother knows best”? It’s a saying for a frickin’ reason. We’re the backbone of every decent household in America.
I think Jesus would watch Christian Mingle The Movie with me, and would snort and groan and make snarky commentary in all the right places.
The list of far-fetched hobby-type things goes on—latte art, throwing things in a blender and showing the footage on YouTube (Will It Blend?), keeping moldy water in your garage and selling it to other people (home brewing)…
The pleasure of these videos comes from the small frame. Everything is contained, orderly, and clean. All of the mixing bowls—so many!—are matching. All of the ingredients and utensils are always there—without price tags.
So on back. Back to the music video. Back to the lyrics that make the video all worthwhile. It’s not that I’m expecting everyone to get this.
This was my mistake. I tried to tell a story without knowing the lives behind it, without caring. I did not publish that story, however remarkable I still find it. It was not mine to share.