A waterfall of plush animals attacked the unwitting family below.
“Why does this coffee taste like squirrels?” Yelp reviewer asks.
Wedding guests ate the marshmallow dress and the bride inside.
The frozen denizens of Snow Village are caught mid-breath. They halted mid-coitus, mid-skate, mid-job, mid-death-rattle. Their pets are trapped into loyalty.
It was supposed to be the pizza delivery driver’s last day. She lined up a new job working in the Flamingo Hotel’s cleaning staff with her aunt. It paid better. She would stop gaining weight from the restaurant’s in-house buffet. Her clothing was shrinking and contorting into painful shapes around her hips and stomach.
Snapping linens into place and vacuum-dancing would suck the pasty white from her middle and deposit it… where?
Did one poop out excess fat? Did it evaporate with sweat?
She had no one to ask; her mouth was porcelain-sealed shut. Her body was trapped in this form, her arms in this pose, her cheek singeing slightly from the air venting from the box.
People told him that an off-lead dog would become roadkill.
He hoped so.
The dog smelled like beef jerky, ass, and metal. He took the dog in the shower with him and felt-self conscious under the gaze of the sopping cotton ball at his feet. He scrubbed the dog with a special shampoo that smelled like coconut. The dog came out smelling like wet Hawaiian jerky, ass, and metal.
Its nose dripped. When he read the paper on the couch, the dog would rest its nose on his thigh. The wet stain spread as he progressed from the main section to the sports to the crossword.
His son wanted a bunny. Bunnies didn’t save boys from wells. He purchased the boy a dog, a solid American mutt puppy from the pound.
His son never played with the dog. His son joined the Navy.
People raved about how old the dog had gotten. People complimented his parenting skills. The dog lent him a reputation of dependability. The dog also oozed its smell and fur onto everything he owned.
The dog wouldn’t die, no matter how many times the man crossed the street.
My favorite photos this week are a warm moment and a cold moment.
The blizzard photo was taken from a moving bus, using the Panorama function on my iPhone. Loving what happened to the tree.
After I took the photo of the baby, she totally pooped all over that outfit at Mass. Don’t worry, girlfriend, that’s how I feel about pink and church, too. (I’d be her godmother if I weren’t such a dirty atheist, as evidenced by the previous statement.)
Speaking of photos, here’s the most accurate one taken of me in a long time:
That’s what my Bitchface™ looks like.
Dan tried to take a photo of me eating nachos. Like I need more unattractive photos taken of me. So I scowled. I love this photo. Dan’s a great photographer all around.
He also took this one you may vaguely remember from ages ago, when I was, apparently, a happier person:
Winter does unpleasant things to a person’s spirit.
Photo booths are the original selfies. They’re what happens when you want a picture of you “having tons of super-fun! look at me!” and you don’t have anyone who actually wants to take the picture.
You mug. You duck-face. You toss up gang signs. You try too hard in an effort to show how effortlessly cool you are.
Does that mean I can resist a photo booth or selfie? No.
This planet has 1.236 trillion bones, twelve billion eyes, and six billion voices. Statistically, I’m insignificant, and that’s really hard to take. I like to pretend I matter. I want to be noticed. I want to be liked (and, well, “liked” in the Internet sense, too).
It’s just not me. Everybody wants to be appreciated.
Give a little extra attention to your friends and loved ones this season.
It’s not prudent to lean over the subway’s yellow “do not cross because a train will decapitate you” line to look for rats.
But I’m not known for my intelligence.
(Honestly. I’m not. In middle school, my brain was decreed a paltry 129, which did not qualify me as “gifted.” Derp, derp.)
The first few days in NYC, I could not find a rat to save my life. I became despondent.
Finally, on the second-to-last day, my husband found one scampering up into a trash can.
“I love you, snuggie!” I screamed at it across the platform. “You just keep on keepin’ on!”
In the ‘burbs, yelling at vermin would be considered eccentric. In NYC, my special brand of cray-cray fit right in.
Here are some non-rat-related shots of our trip: