We saw Prince live on Saturday, and it was amazing. The air? Electric. Some thoughts.
I finally caved and booked some time with a chiropractor – which, interestingly enough, has spurred me into a “reclaim thyself!” mode fitting for the over-emphasized resolutionary month of January.
Iris tagged me in a chain status (So glad we’ve moved on from chain letters; what a disrespect to trees!) to “list ten albums that have stayed with you over the years in some way.”
This story ends exactly how you think it will, and in the best way it possibly can.
This guy asked me where I am from before I was born. That is some intense grocery checkout conversation.
There comes a point in every woman’s walk along a crowded urban street where she wonders: Will he act on it? Will he follow me down the street? Will he spit on my shoes? Will he tell his friend the latest one-liner about my ass in a loud stage whisper?
When I tell people, “I’m that person who gets bitten all the time,” they often reply the best way they know how, which is by dispensing advice for someone who doesn’t have a fucking clue what a mosquito is.