I am having a conversation in broken English outside a bar with a man named Matthieu. He brought up the attacks before I did, which is good, because I was terrified to bring it up, and not even sure if I should. “You are from New York, so you understand,” he explained.
D.A.R.E. to explore the unexplored. Here be monsters and suddenly we’re the first ones, wading through myth and legend and finding freedom, happiness, and warmth. We don’t see dragons or lose our grades. We don’t get pregnant. We aren’t shoving suppositories up our asses à la Trainspotting or whoring à la Requiem for a Dream. It’s just nice. Warm and cozy and soft. One of us uses the word “underwhelming.”
“I think Advent is my favorite season, but by the time I’ve finished all of the work and grading, Christmas is here and I never really got to enjoy it.”
I have a “thing” about hair, and it may to seem strange to you. But let’s be honest, you have your things too.
My pastor slipped up this past Sunday, saying “Lent” instead of “Advent,” as she sent us into this new season. How appropriate, actually, for these two periods of waiting mirror each other: repetition with a difference.
6. Bribes are more than okay. I’ve trained my kids to think that tic-tacs are the holiest of grails in terms of possible rewards for good behavior.
I coach him through the formalities of a job interview. “Why should I hire you?” I feed him. “I am a good worker,” he sounds out. He is nervous. He rubs his neck. I can’t take my eyes away. I can’t stop thinking someone tried to kill you.
I literally wrapped my arms around my fridge the other week after it made a sound I would describe as a “death rattle” and begged it to hold on until I could either save up enough money to fix it, or find a full-time job.
I am not thankful for lice. And I never will be. But I am thankful for men. For a certain man in particular. You will see why.
This year’s paprikash dinner was Shakespearean—brutal in its unintentional comedy and not without its tragedy.
