If you tell a story and come out the hero, you’ve skipped a long chunk in the middle.
As my property stands now, tree branches have overgrown it, the garden box is six times its height in twisted vine, the lawn can hide my dog, and a rat has bored a maze through my dried compost bins.
DJs mix metaphors better than anyone.
There’s no moral outrage when you say, “I grandma-creamed my coffee.” I wonder why the double standard.
I am in a large bathroom, glossy and beige the way rich people like them, granite countertops, fake mineral veins in the tile, lit dimly for the mood is 7:30 p.m.