A twentysomething’s idea of “work attire” can often be anything but. A button down you wore to your graduation matched with dirty black skinny jeans and boat shoes doesn’t exactly scream “401k” but whatever, we’re all cute and figuring it out!
The first word that came to mind was definitely “graveyard.” Not cemetery. Cemeteries have personality. Some are showcases of the art of dying, piling on the style with cracking marble tombs, muscular, lush-leaved trees and heavy stone angels.
After we finished, I immediately knew that it was over, that whatever just occurred between us would never happen again. This wasn’t who you were. This was just you in someone else’s bed. This was you in Eastern Massachusetts on a chilly winter night trying to be someone I needed you to be.
Granted, my roommate is a normal-sized person, one for whom clothiers actually manufacture their goods (by the way, can us little guys get our own version of a “Big & Tall” section? “Tiny & Diminutive,” perhaps?).
This wasn’t supposed to happen to my father. He had told me that his PSA levels were elevated but not to worry. After all, he just spent over two months battling swine flu at St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica and was in recovery.