New England in the fall, and also the quintessential Instagram picture. I’m so proud.
“You can see how this book has reached a great boundary that was called 1900. Another hundred years were ground up and churned, and what had happened was all muddied by the way folks wanted it to be—more rich and meaningful the farther back it was.”
John Steinbeck, East of Eden
“The years go by, and I’ve told the story so many times that I’m not sure anymore whether I actually remember it or whether I just remember the words I tell it with… At this point, what difference does it make whether it was me or some other man that saw Moreira killed.”
Jorge Luis Borges, “The Night of the Gifts” (Trans. Andrew Hurley)
My senior year of college, I lived in an apartment next to an old cemetery.
The cemetery had headstones and crypts that dated back to the 18th century. Several of them belonged to the college’s first students. I always wondered whether they willingly chose to be buried there out of devotion to the college, or whether academic rigor got to them before they could graduate. I typically assumed the latter.
The cemetery was mostly green and wooded. Parts of it were steep, and it even had a ravine dividing it down the middle. With its tall trees and eery voices, the graveyard was hauntingly beautiful. During the fall and spring, I used to take a shortcut through the cemetery. I was drawn to the tranquility and quiet, and of course, the dining hall on the other side. I told myself it was a shortcut, but I still doubt if it actually was. I had to climb down a sharp incline then up another hill to get across, usually taking about as much effort as just walking around the cemetery. I never dared to take the path during winter, lest I came across winter gnomes, shout in surprise, then slip, break a leg, and freeze to death. Continue reading
If you feel like your Starbucks barista is silently judging you based on your order, it’s because they are.
Last week, I got a strange phone call, and I still can’t make heads or tails of it. Maybe you can help… Looking for any leads.
The unanimous Declaration of One Woman whilst shopping for clothing in the United States of America.
When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one woman to single out her greatest grievances surrounding the production and design of women’s clothing, to assume among the people of the earth a position different from that which they have hitherto occupied, but one to which the laws of nature and of nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to such a course.
We don’t talk anymore, we don’t talk anymore
We don’t talk anymore, like we used to do
The following satirical essay will be much more enjoyable if you’re familiar with Charlie Puth’s “We Don’t Talk Anymore.” Most of the information in this essay is loosely based on true facts, but some of it is so loosely based on real details that it’s debatable whether “loosely based” is still an appropriate description.
Class: MUS 52.21 Contemporary Music
Due: In 1.5 hrs.
Let’s Talk about Why “We Don’t Talk Anymore”: A Lyrical Analysis of Puth
Swimming is a confusing sport, because sometimes you do it for fun, and other times you do it to not die. And when I’m swimming, sometimes I’m not sure which one it is.
I stand on the edge of the pool and jump.
It’s amazing that the amount of news that happens in the world every day always just exactly fits the newspaper.
Mary made a quick stop at a local grocery store to buy apples. She reached for an apple that seemed to meet her fruit standards. Immediately, she realized someone had already taken a bite of the apple. The apple slipped through her fingers as she cringed. She grabbed a different apple, then another, and then one more. To her horror, Mary discovered that all the gala apples had the same bite marks. The red delicious were left untouched.
Mary stepped back, clearly disgusted. That’s when she saw a young man taking her picture with his phone.
Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion.
― Arthur Koestler
Mrs. Henderson was clearly losing the battle against her yard. Weeds had taken over most of it, and the overgrown grass hid a few newspapers scattered across the lawn.
Kate sighed as she picked up yet another newspaper on her driveway. She lazily threw it over the fence to join the others on Mrs. Henderson’s yard. To the dismay of both women, the Tribune never seemed to deliver the paper to the right house. Even after numerous complaints.
All Kate wanted to do was take off her heels and relax in front of the television with a glass of wine, which is exactly what she did. It had been a lousy Monday.
I regard romantic comedies as a subgenre of sci-fi, in which the world operates according to different rules than my regular human world.
Are you ready to be the leading lady of your love life? Do you want to begin your “happily ever after” starting tomorrow?
With this handy new guide, NOW YOU CAN! For a limited time Valentine’s Day offer, I’m releasing a free excerpt of my forthcoming self-help book, From Plucky Comic Relief to Main Romantic Interest in 30 Days (Pre-ordering available soon). I’ve dedicated half of my life to exploring how Hollywood has provided all the answers to life’s hardest questions about love: “What should I wear?” “Will he like me?” and even the classic, “Should I bring a burger in my purse in case the line at the restaurant is 2 miles long because it’s Valentine’s Day?” Fret no longer. Below, I’ve compiled some of the best nuggets of wisdom romantic films have taught us over the years. You’ll have him saying, “As you wish” like Westley before you know it.
“The U.S-Mexican border es una herida abierta where the Third World grates against the first and bleeds. And before a scab forms it hemorrhages again, the lifeblood of two worlds merging to form a third country — a border culture.
Borders are set up to define the places that are safe and unsafe, to distinguish us from them. A border is a dividing line, a narrow strip along a steep edge. A borderland is a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural boundary. It is in a constant state of transition. The prohibited and forbidden are its inhabitants.”
― Gloria E. Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza