Monthly Archives: October 2020
Oh no, Hallmark, I think it’s quite likely I already care far too much about the assorted unnecessary objects in that unasked-for packet.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t contemplate the busted door as a sign from God that I should stay home, but I brushed that off right quick.
If you were placed into a story about first dates, you’d better know your fish diseases.
Am I really supposed to make a purple sandwich out of this mess?
The professor in charge of my primary tutorial would, in what conservative pundits would later call “a total snowflake move,” offer to move back the due date on that week’s essay.
But writing about my anger also moved me to remember that there are no clean lines to be drawn here between villains and heroes.
Don’t cause someone else harm. That sounds like a really good place to start.
My first shift. Spilled a glass of Sprite and dropped a basket of onion rings within the first 30 minutes. Surprisingly, they let me stay.
In the failure of dogma, try generosity.
I won’t say we pulled half-burned logs out of firepits to salvage them for our own use, but I won’t deny it either.
Almost despite myself, I’m finding that I do enjoy the quiet, the darkness.
Law and order, but only certain laws and certain orders.
As the days now grow shorter and the nights darker, I try to let the metaphor of autumn give me hope instead of melancholy.
We would be poorer without heros, and yet they would be nothing without us.
I’d scour the library then return home with an armload of feminist literary retellings.
So I’ll wrap some twigs in newspaper and set them alight atop a log to watch them burn while the veil hangs thin.
October is an attack on the senses in the best way.
I sense that his lyrics’ timeless status in rock history owes partly to the fact that they’re sung with such raspy lust for a better world.
If there were a sixth love language, I believe it’d be food
Instead we’re all Tahani and Jason: one-note and stagnant.
Mr. Knightley’s position and relevance to the Woodhouse family are not once explained in this film, and if the representation in Clueless is inaccurate, then I still have no idea why he’s always around.
That point aside, though, Trump doesn’t have Maleficent’s stoicism, Mother Gothel’s manipulative skills, or Ursula’s show-stopping stage presence.
Perhaps what I really need to invest in is a nightlight. Preferably dinosaur shaped.
But this is not an obituary or a hagiography or a remembrance.
Life has not been kind to you, but you are so unfailingly kind to it.
I detangle earbuds before including them, ready to start a playlist inspired by fleeting feelings my words can’t capture.
Her comment broke the meditative silence of our post-dinner respite, and we stumbled into the idea with the dazed confusedness of young students in the presence of wisdom.
I prefer everything with subtitles anyway.
The moment I began to slide, I thought of nothing.