Some of us are special.
It seems like cheating somehow, breaking some overarching Law of the Way Things Are Supposed to Be.
I’ve been victimized but that doesn’t mean I have to be a victim.
They did surgery on us, probably when we were babies! They cut us open and put some kind of chip inside!
Hey,” I shoot back, “you can talk trash about me, but lay off my Tater Tots!
Pick on someone your own size!” I shot back, which was probably stupid because there weren’t any sumo wrestlers in our neighborhood.
Vlad always told me that woulda-shoulda-coulda is a sucker’s game.
Even the listings of school clubs only emphasized how self-centered we were. The track team – oh, you can’t run? Too bad. The art club – you’re all thumbs? Take a hike. The drama society – you’ve got stage fright? Tough buns. The chess club – no brains? No dice.
A paper chain can be done when it hits a certain number of links. But tolerance is a project you always have to keep working at.
Why is it so hard to understand that we have to find a way to live together?
I have it all figured out scientifically,” said Rudy, his eyes gleaming. “Biologically, in fact. You see, Silver Lake is a girls’ camp. Therefore, they have girl clones. Once the dancing starts, our clones, being of the male persuasion, will devote all their attention to the female clones. With the loud music and everything, we could probably stand at the door and wave and yell ‘toodle-oo’ and they’d never notice us. That’s if we go at all. I have a feeling Chip won’t let us.
Maybe it’s simpler than that: If the biggest jerks form a club, everything starts to fall apart when one of them isn’t quite so jerky anymore.
And now I’m supposed to believe that the leader of the three, Alpha Rat, is a good guy because he fell on his head.
My father is considered the smartest man in the world. But when it comes to the unplugged life, I’m the brains of the family.
My dad always uses this expression: “If it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck.
You know how eighth graders are anti-everything? Well, sixth graders are the opposite of that. They’re super gung ho, since being in middle school is still a big deal for them. Give them a year – they’ll wise up.
Why don’t you share how you hurt your leg? I’m guessing it was a football injury.” “No way,” Barnstorm scoffs. “The tackler isn’t born who can catch me. I was changing a lightbulb in the bathroom and I slipped off the toilet seat.
We can’t change the past. All we can do is work hard to make things right in the future.
We all do jerky things,” she assures me. “It’s what you do next that matters.
Link, there hasn’t been time for me to give you much of a formal Jewish education. But you might remember from Sunday school some of the stories of the Old Testament. God forgives us – and by doing that, God shows us how to forgive each other. Even more important, those of us who’ve been forgiven spend the rest of our lives trying to be worthy of that forgiveness.