You look about as tiny as Idina Menzel’s voice.
Mostly I was spending time in the Strand, that bastion of titillating erudition. Not so much a bookstore as a collision of 100 different bookstores, with literary wreckage strewn over 18 miles of shelves.
But instead she freezes. She looks away, as if she can ignore her way out of it.
Kids don’t really get to hear their parents giggle enough if you ask me...
Some bookstores want you to believe they’re a community center. Like they need to host a cookie making class class in order to sell you some Proust. But the Strand leaves you completely on your own. Caught between the warring forces of organization and idiosyncrasy, with idiosyncrasy winning every time.
I have to resort to email, and email is not enough. I am starting to get tired of relying on words. They are full of meaning, yes, but they lack sensation. Writing to her is not the same as seeing her face as she listens. Hearing back from her is not the same as hearing her voice.
Why is it so much easier to talk to a stranger. Why do we feel we need that disconnect to connect?
I love snow for the same reason I love Christmas. It brings people together as time stands still.
I never married because I was too easily bored. It’s an awful, self-defeating trait to have. It’s much better to be too easily interested.
I fear you may have outmatched me, because now I find these words have nowhere to go. It’s hard to answer a question you haven’t been asked. It’s hard to show that you tried unless you end up succeeding.
I realize that miss her or not missing her isn’t the point. The point is that I’m still carrying around what happened as much as she is. And I need to get rid of it.
The part I enjoy most is not the doing, but the noticing. Noticing the way she smells like oversugared coffee, and the difference between her smile and her photographed smile, and the way she bites her lower lip, and the pale skin of her back. I just want the pleasure of noticing these things at a safe distance-I don’t want to have to acknowledge I am noticing.
You’re still a pinless grenade over the world not being perfect. no, I am a pinless grenade over the world being cruel but every time I’m proven wrong, that pin goes in a little more.
Because we can’t stop the weltschmerz, we can’t stop imagining the world as it might be. Which is awesome! It is my favorite thing about us!
Because what is life if not a series of loud and quiet moments shuffled together with some music thrown in?
All dressed up, we thought we looked so old. Now, of course, we look at the picture and see how young we actually were. We get younger every year.
This is Tiny’s number, but everybody’s going to be looking at the boys in uniform. This should be the most homoerotically charged baseball dance number since “I Don’t Dance” in High School Musical 2.
When people say love is blind, they act like that’s a good thing. But some people find their way around in the darkness a little better than others.
Every traveller returns home.
Tiny is trying his darnedest to start a musical conversation with Phil, but at first, Phil’s not into it. Luckily, Tiny’s persistent – like Angel in Rent, but without the cross-dressing and the specter of AIDS hovering over everything.