Call it high-functioning, call it keeping your sh*t together, call it what you will: I own my crazy and I keep it caged up pretty good. And recently when I see my fellow crazies out in public, they look like they are straightening up and flying right, too…
Those who can must have more than one child, not just for their own old-age insurance, but so that we as a society don’t end up with a whole generation of selfish only-children that will make the Me Decade of the ’70s look like Marx and Engels’ originally planned socialist wonderland.
“Hey, did you see on the news where the homos and the lesbians at U of M want to build a center? Right there on the campus?” my grandma asked me in a high-pitched tone of opprobrium, by way of making conversation.
I endured an abusive relationship, which, though it was horrible, was still the relative high point of my relationship career in my 30s, that’s how sad and empty my love life is.
In telling me the story, adult-to-adult, he appeared to go on his own backward emotional journey, reliving the anger he felt back in 1980. He started jabbing his finger in the air as his eyes became slits and his jaw tightened: “I said…
Even with hundreds of millions (billions?) of blogs and websites in existence, you can still pick out who has true talent. You can fool Mother Internet, but you can’t fool Mother Nature.
“What’s wrong with looking like a baby?” you may ask. True enough: Babies are cool and chill, but I’m almost 40.
It’s okay, children. You don’t have to be afraid of the middle-aged man dressed in a witch costume. It’s only for Halloween! Doesn’t that make it better? What are you going to be for Halloween this year?
Officer Tilthead drove me to the scene of the arrest. Made me ID the perps (or not) right in the paddy wagon. No lineup at the station. Just opened the back door and pointed in there, where three faces were glowering at me out of the dark, their eyes intent and glowing like opossums’ when your headlights light them up aside a night road, but with more shame and anger at being caught. “Is that them?” asked the Fuzz…
The final hand gesticulation I made was to pull my wallet out with a flourish to pay for my pie. That’s when she leaned toward me, winked and said with a side-to-side sweep of her hand: “All these crusts are kosher, by the way.” For once I didn’t know what to say. I just nodded. Now I knew what being profiled feels like.
