Outrage fatigue has become popular these last few years, like the fashionable suicides that knocked off so many of the Romantic poets.
One hit to the torso killed you dead. Three hits to the same limb chopped it off. Head shots were off-limits by parental decree, but if they happened on accident you better recover quick before Calvin jabbed you in the belly with a two-handed sword.
In the 15 years since electronic voting machines were first adopted by many states, numerous reports by computer scientists have shown nearly every make and model to be vulnerable to hacking.
“Meeting you was a divine encounter. I’m living on trust, too.” Jacob grinned, as if my existence validated his life.
You get one or two good ideas of your own, and that’s it. That’s all you get to work with, and you can either beat your ass like some self-flagellating monk to make something with that idea, or you can leave it alone and keep on copying.
When I die, bury me naked. Or burn me. I’ll leave the choice between casket or urn to my loved ones, so long as they keep clothing out of it.
Those who drive sex education policies, it would seem, care more about ideology than accuracy—more about ideology, in fact, than effectiveness, teen moms, or lifelong diseases, either.
Blackberry ice cream is as holy as library reading logs or PVC swordfights.
Then I pointed my skis over the edge and leaned forward so my weight eased me into the wide couloir, and it felt like I was plummeting and the snow exploding around me like a warzone.
“It doesn’t matter what you do,” I will tell my children, “as long as you like yourself better than you like most other people.”
Four tablespoons, give or take, of pure, undiluted mayonnaise.
That’s why teachers are always angry, and why the most successful schools still employ good, old-fashioned paddlin’. Yell some sense into ‘em, preferably with personal insults and condemnations of their overall character.
I stood ten feet away from Kate Stables in the front row of an audience that barely totaled twenty people, and yet This Is the Kit wasn’t playing for us. They didn’t even know we were there.
The last time I knew who I was I had acne, four AP classes, and a Bible in my senior photos.
Whenever I tell people about this hunting trip, about my family’s tradition for the past ten years, I share it with a blend of defiance, pride, and defensiveness.