I know we’re not supposed to mention those things. It makes us uncomfortable, but we’re all adults here.
Don’t let anyone tell you that you’ll have to lose them one day. You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to.
Everyone’s jonesing for that hit of the S’mores. It’s like a town full of Wimpys, promising, “I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a Snickerdoodle today.”
It’s like getting abducted by a UFO. You went into this awful experience with an absurdly difficult and disgusting task. Next thing you know, it’s 45 minutes later and you’re sitting on the floor finished, with no recollection of how you got there or what you did.
There are so many pops and cracks, you’d think I was a walking pile of rap music record albums.
“Who has seen me today? Did I talk to people like this? What is wrong with my face? Am I freakin’ melting?!”
I want to give lectures about what I was forced to call meals as a child and how we don’t get to choose what we want to eat. But, alas, I’m tired. So I plop the Eggos in the toaster and everyone enjoys their morning.
Some loved ones are gone because they’re in a better place now. Others are gone because I am.
Had you told me two days earlier that this would have been Christmas, I would have screamed in worried agony. I would have called it a failure and seen my biggest fear become a reality.
As I frantically tried to put his clothes back on, I repeated “No, no, no,” and “we don’t take our clothes off”.