Monthly Archives: March 2017
The pattern of post-grad life has few intuitive goals. The to-do list is not made for you; life seems more intrinsically aimless.
The friends who kissed early were given the eyebrows at youth group and the girls who hadn’t kissed by college were insecure.
We buried my great-grandmother on Saturday, March 25. She was ninety-six years old.
The timeline suggests Potterville is overdue for another disaster. The Potterville Curse is alive and well.
I recently took a picture of a dumpster while scouting a location for work. My coworker ‘s reaction was basically a polite, but baffled acknowledgment: “ah, yes, that is a dumpster.”
I was recently in a local theater production of Ragtime. I’d like to take a moment to thank my fellow cast members for being humans, and for the joy they brought to my life just by existing.
We’re nodding our heads, ready to keep walking, and then he opens his mouth to sing.
SESAME STREET – Mayor Guy Smiley’s recent housing and business ban has been roundly rejected by the Yip Yip Court this morning on grounds that it unfairly discriminates against humans.
Sometimes I am lulled into a false sense of simplicity.
But as much as this story would insist that Link is the star of this latest quest, the real star of the show isn’t a person at all. It’s Hyrule itself.
Two weeks ago, I revisited the City of Magnificent Intentions.
Life as an expat can be categorized according to two phenomena: experiences that reinforce the expat’s sense of belonging to her heritage and experiences that point to a shift in identity.
Confidence is less like a characteristic trait for me and more like a fluid scale influenced by several external variables that I have a bad habit of internalizing.
We would say it without worrying about whether or not it came off to anyone within earshot as romantic. As you say it to your family, so we said it to each other.
As soon as we walked into West Park Presbyterian Church, we were already in the wrong place.
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.
Unfortunately, while one “bad” student—disruptive, selfish, rude—could derail an entire semester for an entire class, the opposite is not true.
Stories of travel compel us, she says, because “more reliably than anything else on earth, the road will force you to live in the present.”
“I suck at math.” “I’m bad at writing.” “Nobody likes me.” “People don’t get my jokes.” Stop it.
Their shouts of “white power!” were countered by our shouts of “Nazi pigs have got to go!” At the end of the day, nothing really happene
I examine the photos of us together on my phone. “I look like a cartoon character and you look like a Dominatrix. I’d say these fit our personalities pretty well!”
In urban, educated America, masculinity is fashionable only with a veneer of irony.
…while remembering that we are dust is meant to be striking and a bit uncomfortable, I’m confident that no one wants to remember being “butt dust.”
No one remembers to send okra a Christmas card, and they usually misspell “okra” anyways. Ocra? Akra? Okrah? Occasionally, someone visits her when they go south for spring break.
But so often the story would rise up and out of me, and I couldn’t find it again. And I wouldn’t really try.
I’m stepping into church council. Humility knows no bounds. What can I reciprocate? I grovel, lying prostrate, prone.
A fan. A spatula. Thirty soft-cover books. A pile of dresses. Yarn. A bottle of balsamic vinegar.