FILE UNDER: the craziest things that made us think of George Clooney this week.
The mind reels, unable to comprehend such an obvious void in the vast directory of images on the internet has gone unfilled until now, but here it is at last–Benedict Cumberbatch as a dapper cat.
I stopped dancing around the same time I decided to stop starving myself. If I was really going to kick my eating disorder, if I was really going to, in the cringe-inducing terms of the body love movement, “make friends with my body,” it probably wasn’t a good idea, I figured, to put it in a leotard and spend many hours a week in a room full of mirrors.
A daily poem, written from memory and illustrated just for you.
He snores loudly and farts in his sleep. Sometimes he even steals the covers but he lets me big little spoon so I stifle the urge to smother him with a hypoallergenic pillow.
Discuss. Be lovely. Stick with this weird little man till the end. He makes it all come together. Remember that we’re all alive at the same time.
When we go to the top floor – really, the only floor worth visiting at MoMA – I spotted a Miró across the room.
In the morning I have great and impossible aspirations. The first rush of caffeine hits and I am teeming, an overflowing bouquet of ideas, flowers pushing up and out of vases. Today is the day.
Writing isn’t talking. I don’t even have to open my mouth for you to know exactly what I think.
We vaguely religious types, less at home at church than we are on Susan Miller’s website, in a yoga class, and in the pages of self-help books, tend to only turn to the G-man when we’re really lost.