I crossed the street to walk in the sunshine.
Our eyes met across the crowded room, like in the movies, except we didn't share a knowing smile and race into each other's arms. Instead I fell into the trash can.
Cut the ending. Revise the script. The man of her dreams is a girl.
. . . the man of my dreams is a girl.
Me? I had no dreams. No longings. Dreams only set you up for disappointment. Plus, you had to have a life to have dreams of a better life.
Is that all I am? A friend?" "Of course not," I say. "I love you. " "Am I the only one?" she asks. "Yes. Completely. " First, last, and always.
Your failures and your faults, they stick with you. They glob into ugly, cancerous growths inside you and make you want to die.
Industries and businesses that must operate in the marketplace of free choice know that they must change, they must adapt, they must accommodate to changes in public attitudes-or they will surely die.
She's got a smile that heals me.
I don't wear ties to work. And I don't shave.
But looking at this closet, so nice and arranged with their crazy lives at rest among these carefully placed clothes and footwear, she felt good about where they were. "Normal" was not a bad things in this lunatic world; it really was. No matter how it happened to be defined.