Last year I went at least six months without crying. For six months I laughed when I was happy and I shouted when I was angry.
I am an English major because I love words. I love that, when strung together, words make sentences.
I could probably write 800 words about how and why certain people call me and my sister the name we call ourselves, but I want to talk about what Fuzz said next: “Tell her to come up; I’ve never known your sister to turn down a drink.”
I have lived through 21 Virginia winters. For 21 years I have known, for the most part, what my December, January and February will look like.
A friend came by the other day and started talking to my sister about her columns. “Do you take criticism?” he asked.
I love lists. I have lists for my lists. I don’t think I could navigate a day if I didn’t lay out my plans for it.
I believe that most people have a moral compass. Priests have gods. Cops have laws. Protesters have passions.
“Your arm looks gross,” my sister said, acknowledging the hot oil burns on my left forearm. “You could write about cooking in your column.
Today my father is getting a pacemaker. At 21 I never thought I would say those words about my 61-year-old father.
My sister’s room is littered with Hemingway quotes, pictures, books. She drinks Bell’s Two-Hearted Ale because it’s named after one of Hemingway’s short stories — and it doesn’t hurt that it also has a pretty high ABV.
