There are times in life when our emotions get the best of us and the grasp of our own humanly bodies is nonexistent. In high school, I had a friend, let’s call her Dia. Even though we are no longer in contact, I will never forget an incident that I experienced with Dia. It was junior year of high school and like me, all my friends had packed schedules and felt like they were carrying the world in their shoulders. Having nine classes, and at least three of them being Advanced Placement really tired out a person. One day Dia and I were in the library, pretending to do work but mostly taking this rare free time to talk to each other.
As I have come to terms with the fact that I never had enough female friends, I embarked on a journey to discovering everyone's favourite question, why. The reason why I never had enough of female friends in my circles, and why it was hard for me to feel comfortable around them, until now.
I am smart, but Trivia games are not for smart people.
This guy. Right here. Where do I even attempt to begin?
Last day in Tator-Tucky before making the long trek homeward bound for the Northern Black Hills.
In the spring of 2018, I was an impending disaster. When I picture the colour of that season in my mind, I can see sunsets of flamingo, fire, and gold seeping through the blinds of my third story apartment as I listened to the turbulent theme song of the trash cartoon show I watched to keep the ghosts at bay. That spring, I desperately wanted a saviour, but I would not turn out to be the one who needed saving.
We all have that one person in our lives that we would do anything for. It may be a spouse, parent, sibling; in my case it’s my best friend.
Weepy Open-book : Why do I always seem to be the one with problems?
At this point you're probably wondering how on earth did you end up wandering off on this page, and you're most likely in the right as far as reconsidering the righteousness of your consideration. This is the beginning of a normal looking journey in which you will neither be the hero nor the villain. So if you enjoy the sound of ill-sounding puns and bad-looking crosswords you actually may have landed yourself a home run.
Sleeping on a subway is like floating through space. You’re hurtled towards an unknown destination without moving an inch, flashes of light occasionally curtaining your eyelids in between the stretches of inky emptiness. Lying on the back-aching, creamsicle-colored seats is the closest you’ll get to anti-gravitational suspension, one of the few things that you vaguely remember happens in space (it’s hard to know these things when you never got past the tenth grade and astronomy was an eleventh grade luxury). The other passengers-- middle-aged moms taking their kids to the zoo or vanilla businessmen on their way to another mind-numbing morning of meetings-- are like those space rocks that float in and out of your limited attention span: as long as they don’t touch you, they’re not a threat.
Ruvimbo: Why haven’t you been taking my calls, or answering my texts?