The night was still; completely silent. The dim light of downtown Tulsa cast only a slight glow over the living room, but what illuminated the darkness most was the moon. In the absolute peace of the moment, I was restless—it was almost impossible to sleep in the stifling, soundless hours of the early morning.
Some of us actively loathe riding the subway with a vitriol seldom seen outside of silent movie villainy. Service can be sadistically flaky at times and getting stuck in the Hot and/or Smelly Car is always excruciating, but one of the main reasons why people have such strong feelings about these underground torpedoes is “other people.”
She recalls an evening in Las Vegas, dressing alone in her hotel room, getting ready to go out to dinner with Rick yet again. Looking in the mirror, she sees the black lace top and the too-tight pants and wonders if this is what her 25-year-old life is turning into: pseudo-dates with a married coworker on a Friday night.
So I know there’s a song called “Rollercoaster of Love” but to me, love is less of a Magic Mountain thrill ride and more of a sweet happy (and occasionally exciting/terrifying) ride at Disneyland.
There is an alternating need in their writing to both assert their gender equality and to clasp their hands in solid sisterhood with every other female on the planet–a tight-knit circle of ovaries that goes around and around, reaffirming its own awesomeness.