Because bluebirds are so damned happy. Supposedly.
You know what? I turned 40 on Monday. Here’s an illustration of what I think of my forties so far.
Help me, Twittermonster. Please save me from myself.
There is no greater sleight-of-hand than a name.
I once allowed a woman to call me Whitney for eight years without correction. Have you ever done something like that?
The Husband said to tell you Happy Halloween.
Don’t worry—I’ll always share my Easter chocolate with you!
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I am always amazed at what the tango can do when matched with the right dancer.
Whatever the war photographers brought into a place was carried on their backs— and sometimes in their minds.
In the last month of winter, I bought a clock from a man in Latvia who deals exclusively in time.
All those smashed instruments and crying men. I’m never going to get that sound out of my ears, Chet. Never.
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This week, the “Mouth of the South,” Todd Kincannon (R-SC), took to Twitter to call Wendy Davis a whore. YHe’s a klassy, klassy man.
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Between one moment and the next: life, breath, and other surprises.
It’s the light that kills me. Always the light.
