She has taught me to use a sewing machine about six different times. It never sticks.
Also there’s a sentient universe that’s a frog.
The grass was green, fading to tan as it does during winter in the South; 160 years ago the ground would have been stained with blood.
Teachers always have some vague notion about how it’s going to be the most “relatable” of the plays—and the relative lack of bloody deaths and disturbing family dynamics is just a bonus.
I readied myself to finally be the one disappearing into the muddy vegetation while my siblings made sideline sports commentary about my efforts.
She has yet to shred her first roll of toilet paper, or textbook, or slipper.
It is no less than an incarnation of the badges of history Estonia wears into the present, a memento of the past and a dream of a techno-future.
There’s something about these bowls that makes them superior to any other bowl I’ve had.
She laughed and said “Finger guns.” To which I responded “Bisexual finger guns.”
Numbers have a surprising tyranny over me, a word person.