Monthly Archives: November 2014
It would not make sense to place cops above scrutiny, above the moral expectations we have for other people and occupations. I think we need to better understand how police departments work.
What can be said about a light that fails to illuminate, or an illumination that leaves the witnesses blind? What use is light to creatures who’ve adapted to life in the darkness of a cave?
Dinner consists of the apple crisp I smelled. The apples are hand-picked and the crisp hand mixed from Grandma Shenks’ special recipe. Seriously, that’s dinner.
See the thing about power is, God, we love to critique it but when it’s ours, we hold that shit so tightly it would cost us our life to let go.
In 2004, the president’s main turkey was named Biscuits. Its backup—because even turkeys get understudies—was named Gravy. The following year they were named Marshmallow and Yam.
As I’m forced to reconsider the value of these objects, especially my books, I’ve noticed that I tend to place more value on familiar things, precisely because I think I can exercise control over them.
Our struggle is against the authorities who misuse and abuse their power. Our struggle is against the evil that enslaves the world and is manifested in the actions of the University administration.
Brooklyn hipsters wearing glasses with no lenses gathered around driftwood tables, drinking boxed wine, and settling Catan is not at all a difficult image to summon.
But the snow does not fall only on the ill-prepared. It falls on 4.0 students, kids flunking every class, and overwhelmed first-year teachers alike.
I think if Tangled had existed when I was a child, I might not have even known to be scared of Mother Gothel. But Gothel is the kind of villain who haunts my nightmares now.
And in my rising, I have come up with a solution. Jellybeans. I will follow your stupid navigation decisions to the letter if you will spit out jellybeans for every correct turn.
The past three months have swirled by in a flurry of skimmed articles, just-caught buses, and discussions over falafel and hummus about the drawbacks of capitalism.
In an essay for The Awl, Jay Caspian Kang calls the podcast “an experiment in two old forms: the weekly radio crime show, and the confessional true-crime narrative.”
Thanksgiving should not come from comparing what we have ticked off on our fingers to what our neighbors do. Thanksgiving should be an actual experience of gratitude.
Those old haunts the heart still goes to—even daily comforts brought me to them. That all might not seem like much. It isn’t much. But my heart is still a broken thing. My odd heart.
If my fiancé decides to change his name, I want to make t-shirts that say WE ARE THE KRAMERS just to spite anyone who thinks this is not an option.
A serving of oatmeal eaten straight out of the brown paper package gets a five out of ten stars when eaten in my kitchen, but eleventy-twelve stars when eaten atop a mountain.
My fondness for toilets began in first grade when I staged a protest in the Jackson Elementary School girls’ bathroom. I objected to recess, of all things.
And if someone asks you what you’d like to drink, “nothing” is not an acceptable answer. If you say this, you will still get tea. Probably with three spoonfuls of sugar.
He was there alone for about fifteen seconds, eyes closed, loving every moment. Those seconds were an eternity. A mop-headed kid in a big t-shirt ran up behind him and grabbed his shoulder.
My recurring nightmare is this—I am back in high school. Cliché, I know, but every couple of months, I dream that I am my current age yet forced to go back to high school.
I really cannot comprehend why it has to be this way. I can’t believe I wake up every morning and have to come here and deal with this. I can’t believe I stay up late into the night preparing a fun and interesting lesson and THIS is how you treat me! You should be ashamed!
I discovered the other side of recorded music. The side we didn’t talk about in Professor Nordling’s class, and the side that makes recorded music even more challenging, I think, than live music.
You can hyphenate your last name and your husband’s last name. You can take two last names. You can combine your last names into a new last name (for real, people do this).
Later, I was absentmindedly stirring my carbohydrate poverty (linguini) and gazing into the depths of slowly revolving noodles, lost in the translucent swirling. Then a voice startled me out of my reflections.
Ok, ok. I know what you’re thinking: It was a fly, Sabrina. It was something that hangs around poo and contaminates your food and is just generally a nuisance. You did humanity a service.
Presenting the best version of ourselves becomes loaded with pretense, as if our first impressions lock in our identities throughout the duration of a relationship.
And then, when we had some friends over for a spaghetti and meatballs dinner party, I did it: I ate a meatball. And I didn’t die. And it tasted really, really good.