Introspective stories about a life in the city.
(Click on the title to read the full story)
Both the song and the music video haunted me like nothing before.
His name thrusted upon me his criminality and the shame that accompanied it.
She probably thinks I’m a creep, and her observation wouldn’t be all that inaccurate.
Love felt more alluring in the face of adversity and pointless if you came out of it emotionally unscathed.
This girl presented herself as the perfect catch. She was beautiful, foreign and right in front of me.
There is no such thing as a perfect punch as in most instances there is never enough time to prepare for it. Fighting is improvised.
I knew exactly who he was referring to. That was my girl and her jeans were painted on.
She was foolish to think that taking his abuse would turn him into the father that she wanted for her children and the husband that she needed for herself.
I respected Sophia. That’s why I fell in love with her. That’s why I supplicated that she not tell her boyfriend about our affair.
Boys were treated differently in Mr. Hopper’s class.
Avy was humble. As humble as a preacher’s daughter can be.
In my family, the name Rhea became synonymous with the word “whore.”
My dad was a fascinating contradiction, a married man living like a homeless man hoarding an undiscriminating amount of undecipherable items of other people’s refuse.
Thanksgiving was a time to set aside our differences and indifference and pretend that we could tolerate one another still.
Saccharine and corny as most people may seem to think that their songs are, The Beatles’ music represented a type of escape from life.
She looked as beautiful as she did the last time I saw her. She was mix a of Amélie and Zooey Deschanel.