Cormac McCarthy is one of our greatest living American novelists. Author of Blood Meridian, All the Pretty Horses, No Country for Old Men, and The Road (which won the Pulitzer Prize), McCarthy is a poetic storyteller whose challenging novels explore themes of violence, good and evil, and human survival.
You’ve read about depression. You know you probably have it, but you don’t believe in it. Not enough serotonin, they say, you have a deficiency. You’re broken. Maybe meds would fix you but most of the time you’re fine.
The booby didn’t even look before driving through the intersection! I could be a cripple right now!
Where is home? Are you the person you left behind, or the person you’re going back to? And if both those Yous should ever meet, will the two different sides of that equation equal who you are now? Or has one side won out?
Like the show Friends, many human conversations have earned syndication deals in the last few years. That means that, like the show Friends they re-run over and over again, and they are so pervasive they’re seemingly everywhere, all the time.
Your journey will not begin until you swipe your Metrocard and enter the system. Stall as long as possible above ground. Remember, once you’re in the system, you won’t come out.
In these turbulent times, we Americans need a unifying force to guide our country into the future. We’ve tried Democrats. We’ve experimented with Republicans. We need a new solution. Something drastic. For the challenges of today’s society, I propose we turn to pizza.
Hopefully, once I murder every living thing in existence, the female manifestation of Death might finally show me some affection. I’m also thinking about going back to grad school to get my PhD.
No more baby-oiled skin. No more sprinklers. No more hopscotch, no jump rope, no dampened, oversized beach towels slung over the backseats of cars. More worry over bodies in swimsuits and what’s see-through and what’s padded and what’s you never conceived of in summers past.
Long ago, I made a conscious decision to never allow my sex life to get dull, so I compiled a list of five simple ways to keep my head above water on the first date.
Mad Men may have opened the doors to a new style of on-screen drinking, borrowed from actual drinking habits of the 1960s, but the recession made it ever more acceptable for dramas, particularly workplace dramas, to portray drinking in all the ways that Donald Draper and company do.
In New York, everyone’s always crying about not having any money but it’s like, just move to Kansas City, Missouri, and live like a king if you hate it here so much. This isn’t Just Kids by Patti Smith anymore.
Nobody likes bad breath, especially a girl who’s being approached by a guy that’s suffering from a strong case of it. It’s inexcusable, really.
And then Brandon Flowers comes on while you’re standing in H&M — the song he sent you months ago — and, like an army of guerrilla warriors hell bent on foiling your resolve, the missing invades your consciousness, secures its flag in your otherwise preoccupied mind, and holds you hostage.
The truth is, when I look back on the article today, I cringe. And I don’t cringe because of all the negative comments — though, let’s be honest, that’s never pleasant. I cringe because it was something that I thought and, in my ignorance, said loud enough for the world to hear.
Everyone is a dirty, dirty liar. Yes, even you. Whether or not we’d like to admit it, there are just certain things that we’re incapable of telling the truth about. Blame it on society, remember that we all do it, and call it a day. No need to feel too guilty, I promise.
At the park on a weekend, one sees so many hardbodies you’d think you accidentally stepped into a fitness magazine’s photo shoot. Abs jog along the concreted and graveled paths. Everyone playing volleyball does so in bikini and Speedo, and does so gracefully, beautifully.
If you’re a person who still finds themselves 60% drunker than everyone else in the room, I encourage you to look deep within and admit to yourself that getting cray cray at a small gathering of friends at 6 p.m. wasn’t cute.
As soon as a dude turns on The XX and starts dry humping you to the beat of “Crystalized” I suggest you put your top back on and demand he call you a car, even if it is 4 a.m. and you’re really horny. No good can come of this situation.
He treated me like total gold — he was always buying me jewelry I didn’t want and ice cream I didn’t need, and he used to pull cute moves like decorating my car on Valentine’s day and planning elaborate birthday activities, all of which melted my malleable 16-year-old heart.
Scientists still disagree vehemently on the extent of influence, because the differences between bonobos and chimps speak on differing views of human nature and any answer will be extremely politically charged. Chimps seem to confirm the fears of the right, and bonobos fulfill the dreams of the left.
My mother told us not to touch the fishhooks at the very lip of the riverbank, right where the land met the water, as cloudy as a cataracted eye. I promised, in my solemn eleven-year-old way, that no, we would not go anywhere near them and yes, we would keep our shoes on.
Visiting Disneyland was the closest I could get to the animated worlds I adored. One could say that I sucked Disney’s commercial teat until I was delirious.
Loving your family is also about hating your family. The two are inextricably linked. You can see that now. You can’t love a group of people that much without some hate bleeding into it.
I mean, it’s surprising that in 2012 anyone would have some kind of line in the sand about how many pasta dinners a guy has to take you out for before you can take your vagina out of its silk-lined jewelry box and let it participate in the relationship.
Kiss them like it’s going to be hung on someone’s wall someday, as a reminder of what love can be like.
We admitted we were powerless over [insert drug of choice here], that our lives had become unmanageable, reads the first step of all 12-Step programs. But what is powerless? We quibble.
How do you know my brain and my shaken hands and my bones and muscles and my loose skin and I don’t even know my conscious, but you do.
You paced around the waiting room and you found yourself slumped in a chair at 8 in the morning still waiting for a doctor or a nurse or me emerge from the operating room. You looked for someone to talk to but you felt anxious and fearful.
He couldn’t have noticed how much I was sweating, could he? Oh god, but he shook my hand… he must have felt how disgustingly sweaty my palms were. Christ, that must have been like shaking hands with an armpit.
“I’ve never seen this much hair before!” she shrieked. “Donna, Santo, c’mere! You gotta see this!”
Let’s be honest, honest like we’ve never been. Let’s tell each other the truth about things, why not? The blunt horrible fat-legged truth is what really gets someone to like you, not those drippy approximations; no one falls in love with you until you show them some grit.
MyPlate, which allows you to track the calories and nutritional facts of your daily diet, has definitely helped me improve my eating habits. While I recommend it highly, being honest about my diet has been a bit awkward at times.
Live inside the freezer of a 7/11, an opium ring, a mausoleum, a baby merchant operation, a 24-hour airport café or an actual Tea Party.
I often resist exercise, preferring to get my heart-rate up by clicking on link after blog after tweet about the war on birth control. But right now, moving my body feels less like a chore and more like a privilege than ever before.
I have never gotten chills in such a short amount of time, nor felt so moved by that one passage of the song. You go, baldy, you do your thing.
Cloning tiny versions of every Ticketmaster employee’s dog so then their dog can have its own dog, which is a miniature version of itself.
Before that night — or the curvature of that night, those fuzzy outlines once again — I cared. I cared about my family; I cared about my friends; I cared (too much) about my ex-lovers; I cared about the future. To care is to step outside of oneself, to face the cold blade of another human on guard because some other human hurt her years ago.
My sister, brother and I grew up on 80 acres of flat, rich soil, in a climate so arid that it wouldn’t have been farmable if it had not been for the vast underground water source called the Ogallala Aquifer. Canal systems and man-made reservoirs help deliver water down from the Rocky Mountains.
Yep, I’m wandering a deserted wasteland, trying to figure out why I, a male in his twenties, is drawn to this show about pregnant teens. Dotting the landscape here are the show’s slight weekly variables: questions of adoption, parental reaction (“babies shouldn’t be having babies,” you know?), the prospect of education, and maintaining a ‘normal life’ as a teen mom.
Since they felt that the club’s success was also the race’s success, the bigger picture was always kept in mind. When the Alpha Big Five played basketball it was about much more than just the game — it was about community building and racial self-esteem.
An elderly contestant dies during a particularly heated immunity challenge. His tribe members unanimously attempt to vote him off during the next tribal council, but they can’t write his name down because no one remembers it. “Perhaps death is the greatest immunity idol of all…” whispers an unusually cryptic Jeff Probst, who has begun to suspect that all of the players are just figures of his imagination, anyway.
Buy enough Pringles to fill a kiddie pool. Fill a kiddie pool with Pringles. Get into a bathing suit, as if one were to wade inside a kiddie pool. Get inside the kiddie pool face-first and begin chewing. I think you know where this is going.
Cruise: Just, you know, that I’m a moving target, that I’m the prey of every pedophile that ever walked this earth, that I’m destined for drug addiction at ten and prostitution at 11 and an Oscar at 14.
I’m not talking about discounted movie tickets or other little AARP perks. I’m talking about the less obvious though far more alluring boons that are available to only those with 80 or more birthdays behind them.
The stakes are too high for emotionally-driven posturing.
Also, I stalk your ex-girlfriend because I am afraid that one day, you might wake up and realize just how good you really had it.
A man standing in his saddle in the half-lit half-alive dawn banged on the shutters and called two names. He was just a hat and a cloak levitating in the grey plume of his own breath, but when he called we came. That much is certain — we came.
A Tuesday kind of love is this: commuting to work knowing that someone cares about what you’re going to have for lunch; understanding that you do not have to be your dynamic, charming, weekend self this time; this time you can butcher sentences and make bad jokes and trip over thin air and it won’t change anything.
Arguments can devolve pretty quickly at the brunch table, even in the presence of bacon.