The Wheels on the Struggle Bus (or Julia’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day)
HOW DARE THE SUN SHINE WHEN I FEEL LIKE A PIECE OF TRASH STUCK ON THE UNDERSIDE OF A PARK BENCH THAT HAS BEEN PEED ON BY DOG.
HOW DARE THE SUN SHINE WHEN I FEEL LIKE A PIECE OF TRASH STUCK ON THE UNDERSIDE OF A PARK BENCH THAT HAS BEEN PEED ON BY DOG.
1:15 p.m. “Ope, it’s 1:15, I’ve got to run now,” he says. “Thank you, great to meet you.”
I promise, I will tell the story about the two-foot flames licking at the burners when I cracked open the oven door.
Her writing was an act of taking a love that for centuries had been pushed to the margins and defiantly sticking it on the center of the page.
Maybe the heating bills could have been lower. Maybe this leak wouldn’t have happened. Maybe my house wouldn’t be sick.
So what happens, then, when this desire for mastery, reinforced by habit and nourished by the stories we tell and the media we consume, begins to look elsewhere for fulfillment?
There’s something about how she says “weird now” that sounds distinctly Northern European to me. I can’t quite place it.
Innamorato operates on its own timeline, hardly accountable to anything but the desire of its owner to make good pies.
A craving for apples doesn’t vanish just because you planted an orange tree.
“It has letters like the Hollywood Sign, so it’s basically the same thing.”