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We met over Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I was in Starbucks with my nose buried in the book, and she came over my shoulder and whispered, "Don't Panic!" ...I did. I had never seen anyone so beautiful.
et’s say you have what you believe to be a healthy marriage. You’re still friends and lovers after spending more than half of your lives together. The dreams you set out to achieve in your 20s—gazing into each other’s eyes in candlelit city bistros, when you were single and skinny—have for the most part come true. Two decades later you have the 20 acres of land, the farmhouse, the children, the dogs and horses.
The Boy with His Heart on His Sleeve and the Girl Who Never Tried to Fix Him by Max Andrew Dubinsky I was born with my heart on my sleeve. When the doctor handed me over to my mother he told her to be careful.
This is the first installment in "Body Issues," a series of personal essays about obsessions with our own bodies. I used to flash my bra when I was good and drunk. I didn’t really care. It’s funny how this happens, how some part of your body considered “secret” and “scintillating” just feels like more skin. But my boobs arrived early, and grabbed second helpings on their plate, and so men would saunter up to me with that greedy look: Can I touch?
I think I’ll include as many stock photos of relationships as possible You probably wouldn’t consider me a relationship expert. You’re probably right. I’m male, casually hairy, don’t mind drinking by myself and could stand to lose ten pounds.
You are a short story. You start in the middle maybe, and you don’t have a long word count. A few pages. A short arc. A gimmick.
I want to snuggle with you. I’d like to lie on you and put my head on your shoulder and breathe in the same rhythm that you’re breathing. I want to use one of my hands to rub your head, down to your neck, then to your arm, and then hold your hand. I’d like to rest my other hand on your hipbone, which is my favorite part of your body because it’s a straight and bony hip, nothing like my curvy, soft one. I’d like to stay there long enough so that our awkwardness goes away. I’d like to feel you give into the moment.
I know I love you because I want to get you soup when you’re sick. Not only do I want to get it for you, I want to make it for you so you can eat something made with love instead of with crushed insects and preservatives. I know I love you because I want to slap anyone who hurts you, even if it’s your boss. I want to hold you when you’re having a nightmare and kiss the spot that hurts when you bump into something. I know I love you because I want you to be healthy even when you’re not sick, and that’s why I keep bugging you to change your crappy eating ways even though I know you’re over hearing about it.
Somebody loves you if they pick an eyelash off of your face or wet a napkin and apply it to your dirty skin. You didn’t ask for these things, but this person went ahead and did it anyway. They don’t want to see you looking like a fool with eyelashes and crumbs on your face. They notice these things. They really look at you and are the first to notice if something is amiss with your beautiful visage! Somebody loves you if they assume the role of caretaker when you’re sick.
I born in factory. They put me in wrapper. They seal me in box.
This page is brought to you by UC Berkeley Parents Network Back to the Jokes & Quotes Collection HOW TO KNOW WHETHER OR NOT YOU ARE READY TO HAVE A BABY MESS TEST Smear peanut butter on the sofa and curtains. Now rub your hands in the wet flower bed and rub on the walls. Place a fish stick behind the couch and leave it there all summer. Obtain a 55-gallon box of Legos.
Thank you for arguing with me. You taught me the correct way to disagree, as well as the incorrect way. You pushed me to my breaking point, so now I know to never go there again.
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Adventures in shady texting. Recently, someone asked me if I have ever cheated on anyone, and I felt a familiar storm of guilt begin to brew in the pit of my stomach. “Once,” I said. “Not physically.” Not physically?
I like how you mispronounce words sometimes, how you fumble and stammer and stutter looking for the right ones to say and the right ways to say them. I appreciate that you find language challenging, because it is, because everything manmade is challenging. Including man, including you. When you sleep on your side, I like to map the constellations between your beauty marks freckles pimples, the minuscule mountains that sprinkle your back. I like the tufts of hair you forgot to shave and the way you smell when you haven’t showered in a while; I like the sleep left in your eyes.