It is not uncommon for readers at this stage to lash out at others; example behaviors include a savage Twitter mention and/or telling the librarian who recommended the book that he should “seek a new career path.”
Most of the time, we’re just readers with admin permissions.
Fun new surprises to this volume include the worst pet name for any child, several cameos from the Michelle Love extended universe, and multiple scenes that make one go, “I can’t imagine that’s how sex clubs actually function.”
And I just don’t have it in me to explain to a cop why I’m burying Reynolds Wrap under the hostas.
When every thought you had about anything has already been espoused by someone more eloquent and witty than you, universal boredom seems like the inevitable end of human experience.
It’s the last time they ever come to the library.
As a woman, I was late to the scene, and as a hopelessly asexual person, the scene did nothing for me.
I remember thinking, with all the considerable certainty that a fifteen-year-old can muster, that if this doesn’t change us, nothing will.
More likely, though, her inevitable termination was brought on by her unending affection for sugary beverages, which she does not regret.
I am more worried about the effects that these conversations have on adults.
“Please don’t call the police,” she says.
Kay throws out dramatic, world-altering twists as easily as your ex-roommate spoils the new Spiderman on Twitter.
Amidst the bad, the broken, and the baffling, our writers sought and succeeded to chronicle all that and more.
Our paranormal pair spend most of the story thinking about how their relationship failed because David was bad at sex, not chasing down whoever is putting up mistletoe all over town and giving a couple folks some minor frostbite.
“You’re Koster’s sister, right? Why aren’t you a ginger?”
The whole thing was a real exercise in accelerated bildungsroman.
All we had to do to win was get both of our pawns to the launch pad.
You are suddenly and acutely aware that when you die and go to hell, this is what awaits you.
I’d start by telling them about the lies I used to tell in middle school.
It might seem strange to describe a global event that cost some eighty-five million people their lives with the same adjective that Kohl’s uses to describe underwear.
For a creature that technically does not have a brain, Clive has a great sense of dramatic timing.
He lurks behind church ladies when they ask if I’m still single.
Listen, book, your aesthetic can’t be both “lazy Warhol knockoff” and “grandpa forced to take a photo at Ye Olde Wild West Land.”
You would rather die than have some people pity you.
Is anyone listening? Does anyone care? Or are we just writing into the void for the satisfaction of our own egos?
Much of my problem with Mary stems from my own somewhat-fraught relationship with my reproductive system, which is to say that I hate it and wish that it didn’t exist.
For those who shout down ignorance even past the point of no return, who know we are less than two minutes from midnight and continue anyway.
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.
Fergie and the goldfish, thankfully, seemed unaffected.
Hello. You do not know me and I do not know you.
