Short-form writing with a long-winded hand.
"That’s a good free box, if I do say so myself. I’d be thrilled to happen upon that box if I walked by it.” For the past three weeks since we’ve signed the lease on a new apartment, I’ve been repeating this to Stephen ad nauseum, now more a recurring bit to annoy him than anything else.
There's something so deliciously sinister and suburban about an easy interstate commute, relishing in the privilege that bridges the heat blasting on my feet tucked in new creamy leather Vince boots and brief, scalding sips of coffee from the snazzy new travel mug Stephen smartly gifted me for Christmas.
I spent most of my Introduction to Linguistics class staring at myself on Zoom and silently admonishing the 19-year-olds who rudely kept their cameras off for the entirety of the course. My professor in training was a cute blonde German native who, by her own admission, couldn't pronounce "squirrel", and it pained me to see her grasping for even an iota of participation from her students.
The name of the store was "Possibilities," which I frequented with my friend at the time, Kara, the only Pisces in my life I've ever befriended. It sat next to a therapist's office right off Pittston Avenue in Scranton, a therapist I visited only once at my mother's urging after my parents divorced, but that's not what this is about (although the timing of traumatic childhood event and thinking I was a witch pairs nicely, like spicy red wine and a good cut of meat.)
"You have a nice figure, Gringa. But you could still get a little more meat on your bones."
Type A For Andrea 