One hit to the torso killed you dead. Three hits to the same limb chopped it off. Head shots were off-limits by parental decree, but if they happened on accident you better recover quick before Calvin jabbed you in belly with a two-handed sword.
For months, I have been waiting for news about my dream opportunity. I have held back from any long-term commitments for the sake of a possibility. I have been expectantly been waiting for news—any news.
“It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are,” Dumbledore says, “far more than our abilities.”
Enneagram 3, The Achiever: Adaptable, Excelling, Driven, and Image-Conscious.
Matt Cambridge, nice to meet you.
May you warm your body under thick blankets, your hands by radiators, your feet in old slippers.
I remind myself that no one is watching me, probably. Nobody is passing judgement on Christmas Eve.
I’ve made a list of twenty authors—twelve who wrote after 1900 and eight from the centuries before—whose work I’m going to limit myself to.
I recently tried to explain heartbreak to someone who has never had their heart broken. It didn’t go well.
Sadness is that way: temporal. Each encounter comes with a demand singular to the day of its arrival: here is a powerful feeling, attend to it, reconcile its nature with yours.
The word alderman has Anglo-Saxon origins: a noble (serving the king) as ruler of a local district. Quite literally it means “old man.”
