“Dances are dangerous. It’s too easy to fall in love.”
“Who shaved in our sink?” “it was me.” “Where did you shave?!”
“Embarassing story….which one?”
“Mini gherkins…that’s what they call them in England. You have to do it with an English accent.”
Athletes are always walking past me, with what I think are ice packs attached to their elbows and joints. Why? Why would you do something that brings you pain?
Also what is it about baseball that makes you have to put icepacks on your elbows?
My mother and I have the same handwriting—or, we almost do. If you squint, mine is a bit loopier, a bit more heavy-handed, but at first glance, it’s exactly the same.
I was once struck with the vision of an android: pushed into the dirt like a broken cinderella, half of their face done up in smeared flesh-toned makeup, the other half glistening white plastic. They cried: “I want to be human,” as their eyes filled up with artificial tears.
Similarly, I once found myself with the thought of how robots respond to the concept of faith; I was possessed with the idea of a little robot sent out to learn the truth, only to crash land on earth. The robot would ask the nearest human—preferably someone old and wizened, because they would be the wisest of all—how the universe came to be. And the old human would explain that God created the earth in seven days, as the robot listened in awe. Except the explanation would come to an end, and the human would say “But that’s just what I believe. Other people believe that—” except the little robot would interrupt and say, “what is belief? I want the truth.” Except there would be no truth to be found.