The parking lot. A place where the competent and the incompetent converge, united by a shared sense of confusion. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve found myself in this predicament, wandering aimlessly through rows of identical vehicles, trying to recall where I left my own. As I pull into the lot, I’m immediately …
The microwave. Can’t live with it, can’t nuke last night’s leftovers without it. I mean, what’s a guy to do? I trudged into the kitchen, still in my bathrobe, and opened the fridge to grab a frozen burrito for breakfast. Why not, right? It’s not like I’m trying to win any culinary awards here. As …
Jane Austen. I’ve spent hours reading her novels, but it’s not the plots or characters that have me stuck – it’s her voice. It’s like she’s speaking directly to me, but from a different time, with a language that’s both familiar and foreign. As someone who writes for myself, to process my own thoughts and …
