Simple Life Hacks for Lipstick Types

Please allow me some wiggle room, I like to wiggle, and it's even better if there's room:)

The opening scene of our movie will start underwater. You’ll hear crackling bubbles and the popcorn smell will be pervasive. You’ll forget about the hurricane and Nancy, or the slave you left at home in your basement. Everything will melt away.

Ah, memories! I’ll come back now. Hi, hi, Hi! Sorry for the rude introduction! I know it’s not kind to drop you into a little dream without a breathe for air, a hi how are you—hey, no—no, seriously, how are you? Fantastic!

I see little emails come in every day and I read them, I read the subject lines. I have a system in Gmail that applies labels to my emails, so I know whether it’s “News”, “Nuclear”, “CCNY”, “Receipts”, “Medical”, “Ltg Workshop”, or “Flights”. What a taxonomy! Cut the head offa that deer and stuff it with formaldyhde! See if I care, peh! You disgust me.

I’ve come to steak over time. It’s juices, it’s textures, it’s… que’est-ce que je dire… c’est l’elegance, le vrai elegance d’un peau du poivre. Look. You have nothing to fear—this is a blog, and so the fact that it has no point, or no semblence of a point, is kind of the point. A point is not a given, the blog is for free. Many of our elementary school teachers are likely now dead. (Finally!)

I see stuff on Instagram and remember that people used to send chain-emails. My mother hated it when cousin Nan would forward chain emails, the ones where you’d have to capitulate or give up good luck for seven years. I didn’t mind. Now Nan’s a Flat Earther, and my mother gets cagey when she sees her at family functions. I honestly don’t think she forwarded the emails and that makes me really sad.

I have never been to a psychic. Nor have I been to Western or Sub-Saharan Africa. They say it’s the future. Imagine I marry a beautiful woman, we have a child, and then we move to Ghana and I build a nuclear power plant there.

Sometimes I feel like I’m running up stairs and I get there so quickly, I almost wish there were more stairs. I feel like I’m underwater, and my breath is holding me. What if Robin Williams’ ashes were dumped out of a moving 787, and scattered in such highwind atmospheres that they dispersed into tinier, and tinier particles until a little Robin Williams, an extremely fragile clumping of infinite jest, dusted every surface, dissolved in every water stream, plunged into every mineral deposit—and yes, sprinkled every slice of quiche. Could it be that the air you’re breathing right now is—at this very moment—Oscar winning comedian Robin Williams (1951—2014)?