Here’s today’s morning devotion for the senior class.
I know which cashier is the fastest, which one is the nicest, and which one packs my reusable grocery bags like her own personal Tetris championship.
And so here I am, standing still in the eye of a hurricane, the confluence of these memories, documents, and moments of déjà vu swirling every which way.
But the sun comes out and doughnuts exist and there’s a one-eyed cat who likes to roam the school grounds and often visits my window. This happens, too.
And if there’s one thing I’m really not, it’s a poet.
In the spirit of the anthology, we’ve decided to tailor our annual “best of” list to the sections in the book.
It’s a typically bustling city now silent and eerie, “Jingle Bell Rock” echoing forlornly down the avenues.
Day four and I wonder if it’s okay not to write about this.
The character becomes too old, too practical, or too jaded to believe in the thing that once brought him so much joy. That world, the thing he loved so much and invested so much time in, dies. And something inside him dies, too.
I’ve never quite understood the call of the West, a siren song so strong that some will risk—and lose—their lives to follow it.
6. Going swimsuit shopping. Finding two types of swimsuits: lingerie and grandma’s pajamas.
It was decided, with enthusiasm on their parts and mild curiosity on mine, that we should have a bird in the house.
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.
The dancers separate into groups of eight and begin the dance. There’s nothing quite like the sound of hundreds of wooden shoes clomping along the asphalt in rhythm. Or the semblance of rhythm.
In training, we were taught to give specific words to people’s feelings, to say “devastating” instead of “sad” or “furious” instead of “angry.” But those are just fancy words for the fairly small and basic set of emotions we face as humans.
They say the drive to grandma’s house is always longer than the way home.
It’s Saturday morning and I’m back at my old high school, preparing for a day full of those meta sort of moments when you get to sit on the other side of the table. Those times when you get a totally new perspective on something you’ve done a hundred times.
On the outskirts of town, there’s no telling where the snow ends and the sky begins. It’s hard to hear the glory today.
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
Maybe it’s a sign of our times that I was waiting for this genuine and heartwarming scene to turn ironic, but it just didn’t ring true.
And that’s where it all started. Talking to myself, that is. And if you know me well, you might be surprised by this revelation. That’s because I’m sneaky about it.
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.
Confetti from a dropped and spilled 3-hole punch; Crumpled 8.5×11 sheet, blank and inexplicably wet; Crumpled 8.5×11 sheet, Wednesday’s homework, unfinished
I went to Paris and sat on the grass in a park outside the Tuileries. I ate cold salty ham and creamy brie on a baguette that tasted like bread is supposed to taste.
When we started the post calvin, we weren’t exactly sure how it would turn out. Now, with two years in the bag, we couldn’t be happier.
These books tend to be easy and engaging. They’re not about heavy topics, and they don’t make us think too hard or reread every other sentence.
It can feel like us vs. them, heroes vs. villains, teachers vs. everyone who doesn’t understand how hard it is to explain the present participle to kids who can barely read.
Faking it, I would argue, is actually the only way we’ll make it anywhere. So few of us are born with natural, shining pearls of talent that don’t need refinement.
There is one space that makes me nervous. It’s not a space we hear a lot about or a space we have pictures of. I can’t rearrange it or make sure it’s painted my favorite colors.
It’s also pretty distracting to have you around. You’re always buzzing and beeping. Those little red flags you throw up tempt me like a bull in the hot Spanish sun.