-What are you like when you’re furious?
-I’m rarely angry.
-But when you are?
-I’ll snap at you, and then I feel bad for having done. You?
-It takes a lot for me to get mad, but I go silent and blank. You could pass me in a 5-inch-wide hallway and we wouldn’t touch.
-Oh yes. That would hurt me.

(Photo via Jaime F)

Me: The office is an amazing deal.
it even has a widow
and a window

Sarah: hahaha

me: the widow is kind of a pain

Sarah: she came with the place

me: you have to ignore her sobbing

Sarah: she just wanders around, muttering, pulling on her hankie

me: that’s why it’s such a deal
i find it helps me with my writing

Sarah: but she stares out the window a lot which is annoying
no one likes a window hog

me: I’m like, “You. Are. Blocking. My. Light.”

Sarah: and she’s like
I LOST GEORGE IN THE WAR, HE NEVER SAW HIS SON!

me: Ugggh.
What are you gonna say to that. It’s like, “OK! Your window. Bitch.”

-Oh dear god. Is that a bridal party doing a cycling wine tasting trip?
-Look how miserable they are.
-Holy hell. That is my nightmare. You know half of them haven’t been on bikes in a decade.
-The sporty maid of honor was all, “I know! We should go wine tasting! And do a cycling tour!”
-Well, she was just hoping some of the girls would consider losing a little weight before the wedding.

Red Rocket Print from John W. Golden

A few months before his third birthday, Hank comes into the living room where I’m working.

“Mama! You wanna see the moon?

“Sure.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom where Dad is already looking out the window in the dark. Hank closes the door to block the light from the hall, and comes to the window with us.

“The moon!” he says.

“The moon!” we say.

It’s a bright crescent moon, high above the apartment buildings. Hank sighs, “I never gonna get to the moon. The moon is very far away. I don’t know what kind of spaceship I need.”

“Yeah, what kind of spaceship do you need?” I say.

He says, “A red one, I think.”

Bryan turns to him, “Yeah. Those are always faster.”

Hank (yells from living room): Mom-Mom? Where is this tank engine?
Me (yells from kitchen): I’m not sure. Are you holding it?
Hank: Yes.
Me: It’s in your hands, love.
Hank: Oh!

Me: Have a bite of your zucchini soup, honey.
Hank: I can’t.
Me: Why not?
Hank: It’s dangerous.