If you ask us to clean for you, and we do, be warned: You are the only person in the universe who thinks that crumpled brown paper bag in the corner is a filing system. When I throw it away because of your passive aggressive accusation that I don't clean our shared space, and I decide to do it as something nice for you, and there was something important in that crumpled brown paper bag in the corner, you have only yourself to blame.
Any sentence that you start with, "Look, all you have to do is..." is going to be ended by me with, "All you have to do is fuck off and not be such a fucking pig and then these things won't happen. How 'bout that?"
It will never change. Ever. As long as you stay then you have implicitly agreed to the arrangement. Seriously. It - will - not - ever - change.
Begs the question has nothing to do with causing a question to arise in one's mind. It refers instead to a logical fallacy wherein the desired conclusion is assumed as correct in the original argument or question, usually in a hidden or disingenuous fashion.
It holds the pen above the page.
Turns the key to endless rage.
On lands of gender, race, and thought.
Conversations tied in a knot.
Sputter, spit, fall to the floor.
Causes, pauses, ire galore.
Boredom guides the trollish hand.
Lemming-like, we join the band.
We dance and follow, you and me,
over the cliff and into the sea.
So wide. It splays and spreads. And it's hot. So hot. Puerto Rico is hot, but it's a different hot. It's a living hot, a jungle hot, a green hot. This is a brown hot made of winds that are hotter than the standing air and are what you think of as desert winds. So many highways. The highways have highways in their highways. So, so wide. Huge loops leading on to perpendicular highways. Whole municipalities in Puerto Rico could fit in the dead space of these loops. A land made for giants and we are tiny ants on the sidewalk.
I spent the day looking for used bookstores after the sterile disappointment of Barnes & Noble. I found a little place in the old downtown area of Ocoee. The forgotten downtown. Little stores in a row in a low brick building made of real brick, not stucco, nestled in an area of Florida bungalows with jalousie windows from the 20's and 30's. An older blond lady runs the place. I don't know her name, but she's Patty in my mind. She looks like a Patty. She was nice. She laughed a lot. Her eyes were mostly crow's feet behind thick glasses. I bought a book because I didn't want to be another looker and not a buyer. Maybe she does alright, maybe not. Who knows. We chat for a little while. She knows her Sci-Fi. The old stuff. The good stuff. She's fun. We dork out for about half an hour. I get the feeling that a half an hour of dorking out is more important to her than the four dollars I paid for the book.
Back in my rental car, in the layer-cake of heat, and back to the hotel. Maybe some of the Brits will have ceded a corner of the pool area. Two kids per family, but seven lounge chairs? Even if we set aside one lounge chair per family to house the copious alcohol and cigarettes, still, the maths must be different in the U.K. Later I'll look for a thread about American tourists and think ironic thoughts.
My hubby broke his telephone... again.
And I feel terrible about it. I know it's just me being sentimental, but it pains me when these things happen to him, and they happen to him all the time. He's a study in duality. He's a devil on the dance-floor; he teaches Zumba and Xco and other assorted modes of aerobics. And he's really, really, really good at it. He's got a shelf full of trophies and medals and awards he's won at national competitions. The whole nine. The works. But it's like his sense of bodily awareness ends at his own skin.
If he's going to ride shotgun, make damned sure that there's nothing in the passenger seat before you unlock the door because he'll sit on it without looking.
If it's made of glass and you let him hold it, consider it lost.
Computers that have been evil in a past life come to my husband in this life as penance.
He kidnaps remote controls and traffiks them to unknown lands where who knows what ungodly things happen to them.
He's blown out the speakers in not one but two Samsung flatscreens within a year of purchase. (If you ever need to replace the speakers in a Samsung LED, feel free to PM me.)
Cellphone parents scare their cellphone children into good behavior by telling them stories of The William.
It doesn't make me angry. We don't hurt for money (thank goodness) but it does make me feel sad when I think he's going without or finds himself in a bind because he's unwittingly flung his iPhone across the room, and God only knows how it happened. I was there and even I can't tell you. It's a mystery.
Separate names with a comma.