Al Was Looking At Me

Rachel, You Take Her,” My Mother Said, Clearly Uncomfortable. “she Might Like You.” “no. Mom, No!” I Protested, But It Was My Mother We Were Talking About, And It Was Either Take The Baby Or Have Her Hit The Floor.

I Thought It Odd That The Woman Was Over A Thousand Years Old But Thought The Microwave Was Primitive.

Do You Have A Sleeping Bag?” I Stared At Him. “no. I Lost It In The Great Salt-dip Of ’06.

Like The End Of A Picnic, All The Weenies Will Be Roasted.

Happy Endings Were Never Handed Out. You Had To Fight For Them, Earn Them With Bruised Hearts And Sacrifices.