Monthly Archives: February 2017
I scour the wall for any ledges, any possible edge to rest a hand or foot. Nothing. The drop to the next balcony I would guess is eight feet. Not impossible.
We danced on moonlight and settled scores by imagining things differently.
On Thursday, February 16, production came to a grinding halt at the greenhouse because most of my coworkers took a personal day for the nationwide protest, “A Day Without Immigrants.”
The difficult task we’ve all received is—like Vonnegut—seeking the slippery truth buried in muddiness and mess.
Nowhere else in this big wide world of ours can you find a life-size Michael Jackson and Princess Diana made entirely out of marzipan.
Fifty seconds of the wind whipping, a few tires screeching, nothing more, nothing more needed. Two days of slipping up the coast, of stinging sand, of white adobe buildings.
There’s nothing like bustling down the baking needs aisle with a week’s supply of Oreos yelling out for “Anthill!” to make you realize you’re not currently leading a traditional life.
The US eventually emerged from The Great Depression, but my grandmother did not.
The number nineteen appears with such frequency in this deposition, it begins to feel rehearsed.
And I’m in Ann Arbor, dreaming of waffles.
Where had he been when? What happened on the way? Why was he there? How did he die? The answers were dispersed on these 28 square feet. We needed them to get out.
I have a significant other. His name is JJ, and he’s a bird.
Outward Bound, Super Camp, tutors, counsellors, mentors—my parents spared no expense in trying to figure out my 2.33 cumulative high school GPA. Nothing worked.
Bobby pin located by companion, lock picking commenced. She picks. I pick. The lock is deemed unpickable.
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.
Driving in Cambodia is not a careful endeavor. It is not orderly. The rules are, at best, flexible.
Last fall, my much-delayed Megabus dropped me off in Chinatown at 2:30 a.m. I had seven percent battery life, four dollars in cash, and no idea how to get to Brooklyn.
The grate creeks and I move to step off, but it snaps under my weight. I’m falling. I thought I could grab the side of the sidewalk, but I can’t.
Don’t look back, keep walking, project confidence, don’t run, keep calm, almost there, almost there, almost there – RUN! Lose yourself in the crowd!
At dinner, we held hands and prayed out loud at the restaurants. Everyone did. To different gods.
I had no cell phone service. No way to leave. I had ridden here in the back seat of a minivan, lurching through miles of winding and branching dirt roads, through a night black with trees and dust and stories of fights.
I went to Denmark. For my first trip to Scandinavia. In January.
The semi-employed anti-hero of this tragic sob-story did what we all want to do but cannot because of various reasons, mostly time-related.
Today, he is known as “the father of gynecology” and is loved for—as his statues say—“treating empress and slave alike.”
In my afternoon with wizards and troll farts, I collected electronic sparkles, almost broke my neck, and unknowingly imprisoned myself and my younger brother.
I sent the email at 3 p.m., and at 3:05 I wondered how they would get the blood from the seats and I couldn’t get it out of my head.