I mean, if my life were a novel, this would be terrible writing. The reader would be flipping back, looking for pages they must have skipped.
She goes to bed early, after washing her face and applying night serum. I go to bed drunk, after forgetting to brush my teeth or remove my contacts.
By the time the bus came, I'd assigned everyone in line a "Lost" archetype; I was Kate because I was sexy and had a backpack.
“Is there a doctor on the plane? Specifically, someone with a PhD in Mathematics with a focus on algebraic geometry?”
“Chris,” I said, as a family of five wiped their shoes on his face. “What’re you doing here?” “Muhughuh,” he said, spitting out a piece of dogshit.
Give me Rafael Nadal. I would let Rafa bagelize me as compared to you-know-who. Is that too much for a poor, first-time U.S. Open qualifier to ask?
A millennium of mystics lives in my heart. But when you look at me, all you see is “Prince of Darkness” in Comic Sans stretched just under my chin.
“Synonyms for ‘laugh’ include ‘chortle,’ ‘gurgle,’ ‘snicker,’ and ‘titter,’” Commander Garm told the dead alien for no discernible reason.
The basis upon which I have lived my entire life is jeopardized—and all because of a trust fall with the ghost of Sir Isaac Newton.
Eternity. Did you catch that? That’s two months times infinity. Let that rattle around in your thick skull for a moment.
I apologize, she giggles and our shared weakness for Snickerdoodles suggests we will fall madly in love by Christmas. Her name is Lacey Sherbert.
"We have orders from the city to remove that thing from your property. Effective immediately.” He pointed toward the Inflatable Wacky Tube Man.