The Parable of Coffee and Its Lover
If you’re looking for a redemptive ending, I don’t have one.
If you’re looking for a redemptive ending, I don’t have one.
As a white person, it’s easy for me to assume that my way of viewing the world is normal. And not just normal, but best. That my way of talking is best. That my way of keeping time is best. That my way of doing church is best.
I will battle against my own impatience and distrust as I remember that people are not exchangeable puzzle pieces.
“We should totally hang out.”
The lie comes easily. Situations such as this feel like they require politeness and kindness more than truth.
The man: “Wow, how great. Now you be sure to take super special care of that beautiful baby. What’s her name?”
Random man: MY REAL NAME IS DONALD J. TRUMP AND YOU’RE FIRED!
That’s one thing that sucks about winter camping. There’s nothing to do after it gets dark, except drink beer and stare at the fire.
B: I think that it might be important to take a minute and savor the fact that you no longer actively think you’re terrible
E: Ik heb een zwemdiploma maar als ik in jou ogen kijk verdrink ik.
L: Uh? Sorry, one more time? I want to make sure the readers get this.
The eternal shades of nightly gloom, which had so recently entwined my soul like a noose, loosened their chokehold and seemed to float away, ethereal bonds dissipating like specks of dust caught in a sunbeam.