Hand Turkeys
Thanksgiving should not come from comparing what we have ticked off on our fingers to what our neighbors do. Thanksgiving should be an actual experience of gratitude.
Thanksgiving should not come from comparing what we have ticked off on our fingers to what our neighbors do. Thanksgiving should be an actual experience of gratitude.
Those old haunts the heart still goes to—even daily comforts brought me to them. That all might not seem like much. It isn’t much. But my heart is still a broken thing. My odd heart.
If my fiancé decides to change his name, I want to make t-shirts that say WE ARE THE KRAMERS just to spite anyone who thinks this is not an option.
A serving of oatmeal eaten straight out of the brown paper package gets a five out of ten stars when eaten in my kitchen, but eleventy-twelve stars when eaten atop a mountain.
My fondness for toilets began in first grade when I staged a protest in the Jackson Elementary School girls’ bathroom. I objected to recess, of all things.
And if someone asks you what you’d like to drink, “nothing” is not an acceptable answer. If you say this, you will still get tea. Probably with three spoonfuls of sugar.
He was there alone for about fifteen seconds, eyes closed, loving every moment. Those seconds were an eternity. A mop-headed kid in a big t-shirt ran up behind him and grabbed his shoulder.
My recurring nightmare is this—I am back in high school. Cliché, I know, but every couple of months, I dream that I am my current age yet forced to go back to high school.
I really cannot comprehend why it has to be this way. I can’t believe I wake up every morning and have to come here and deal with this. I can’t believe I stay up late into the night preparing a fun and interesting lesson and THIS is how you treat me! You should be ashamed!
I discovered the other side of recorded music. The side we didn’t talk about in Professor Nordling’s class, and the side that makes recorded music even more challenging, I think, than live music.