Most people don’t get lucky. They get human. They get crushes. This means you irrationally mortgage what little logic you own to pay for this one thing. This relationship is an impulse buy, and you’ll figure out if it’s worth it later.
Time grabs you by the scruff of your neck and drags you forward. You get over it, of course. Everyone was right about that. One mathematically insignificant day, you stop hoping for happiness and become actually happy.
Not all shabby is chic, just like not every porn actor is a star.
It’s never good to fall in love with someone whom you’d have to stab in the eyeballs to elicit a response.
A human being can spend only so much time outside her comfort zone before she realizes she is still tethered to it.
Every time I open the drawer, it’s a trip down Memory Lane, which, if you don’t turn off at the right exit, merges straight into the Masochistic Nostalgia Highway.
Unless you are a professional, you will find the tart to be a high-maintenance, unforgiving whistle-blower of a pastry.
Ah, the power of two. There’s nothing quite like it. Especially when it comes to paying utility bills, parenting, cooking elaborate meals, purchasing a grown-up bed, jumping rope and lifting heavy machinery. The world favours pairs. Who wants to waste the wood building an ark for singletons?
The world I describe is about how people live now. It’s not about zany people with unlimited, inexplicable funds in an apartment somewhere.
When you spin a globe and point to a city and actually go to that city, you build an allowance of missed opportunities on the back end.
You know what they say: ‘Why sit at a table that doesn’t have key lime pie on it if you don’t have to?’
Brits and Americans have hundreds of different phrases for the same thing. Luckily, it’s usually a source of amusement rather than frustration. A flashlight by any other name is still a torch. My personal favourite is ‘fairy lights,’ which we boringly refer to as ‘Christmas lights.’
Air travel is the safest form of travel aside from walking; even then, the chances of being hit by a public bus at 30,000 feet are remarkably slim. I also have no problem with confined spaces. Or heights. What I am afraid of is speed.
At the end of each year, I sit on the floor and go page by page through the old calendar, inking annual events into the new one, all the while watching my year in ‘dinner withs’ skate by. When I’m done, I save the old calendar in the box of the new one and put it with the others on a shelf.
I’m a summer baby, so I usually have my birthday as a good summer memory.
Cohabitation seems a greater leap in cities because it’s all the harder to extract oneself if things turn sour. It’s what keeps otherwise functional adults living with their mothers.
Everything in New York seems to merit preserving. If it’s not historical, it’s personal. If it’s not personal, it’s cultural. But you can’t. You can’t save everything. You just have to pack it up in your brain and take it with you when you go.
Suburbia is too close to the country to have anything real to do and too close to the city to admit you have nothing real to do.
Out of all artists, authors are the least trained for the spotlight. Wanting attention isn’t a requisite part of the package.
New Yorkers have a delightfully narcissistic habit of assuming that if they’re not conscious of a scene, it doesn’t exist.