A new stack of $100 bills is one hundred hundreds — $10,000. That went in my jeans.
Pour yourself a beer, sit back, and take it in.
Could it be the meaning of life is simply to live it, to accept it, and revel in its ambiguity? Is life an end in itself? If so, is seeking meaning, purpose and direction self defeating?
There’s a certain sense of guilt associated with dragging children into a strange house to look through the belongings of people who are most likely dead, infirmed, or in some state of personal or financial distress.
The higher the digits went, the more I shrunk, compacting in my seat in my silent room to grow faster, higher, larger, made of money I rarely transferred into palpable bank notes. I liked seeing the number of my bankroll climb. A withdraw seemed a loss.
The kiss was not well-executed. Our foreheads were interlocked, attempting to preclude the act. She was rubbing my temples, my shoulders, relaxing the malaise out of my muscles, working to my bone marrow. Why did I let her touch me, was I aroused by illogic? No. I wanted to be transcendent, cerebral. I wanted to be a poem.
All I’ve wanted to do this past week is take Cynthia Nixon out, buy her a cappuccino and a scone, and spend an hour or so commiserating over how awful people can be.
A vacation period as defined by therapists and couples counselors is a time frame that generally occurs at the onset of a romance. It is thought that its actual length is dependent on the two individuals involved — one couple’s may last a week while another’s lasts for a year…
In the Observer profile Marie is quoted as saying, “I wrote to express my worldview/subjectivity because it felt then that no one had any idea.” Isn’t this why people write?
[T]he maintenance of Koko’s brand is at once evolutionarily, existentially, and morally/politically appealing in a way that one could imagine earnestly saying things about how if Sartre were alive today he might consider Koko, not Che, to be “the most complete [entity] of our age.”