What I Imagined “Going to the Bar” Would Be Like When I Was 12 Years Old Versus How It Was Last Week
Reality: The bar door is a push not a pull, and I make quite a scene trying to open it.
Reality: The bar door is a push not a pull, and I make quite a scene trying to open it.
Now is the time for us to act quickly and decisively. But first, let’s take a moment to acknowledge our May birthdays!
I’m really excited to get to know you better! Where do you live? What are your hobbies? What are you eating right now?
Customer service is, as before, abysmal. It requires at least three begs, a yip, and an emphatic paw stomp to get any attention from the staff.
It is May 10, 2008. I am nine years old. I purchase the book Frindle from Hastings Entertainment Store. My mind grows fat off its teachings.
So now I’m a child, still bouncing on the trampoline—did I mention the forest floor is made of trampoline?—and I’m trying desperately not to cry.
Got a haircut and started showering every day. And I’m pretty sure he got my Michael Scott tattoo removed, but he won’t let me see.
Soon, I’ll have to decide which to marry. For now, we do a lot of courtship. One of them might stare at me, and I stare back.
She rolls into my office like one of those rotating hot dogs at 7-11. You know the ones, plastic-y but intriguing.
I walked on and on, finally reaching the end of the line alongside Route 276 just outside King of Prussia, Pennsylvania.
Rather than responding “sounds chill boyz,” he ignored the message, instead opting for a podcast about the disappearing watermen of the Chesapeake Bay.
"A lesser airport CEO would have focused on vanity projects, like adding more of those carts that escort people faking injuries or improving security, but not Mario."