It was a Tuesday, and I was standing in line at the grocery store—milk, eggs, and a loaf of bread in my basket. A perfectly ordinary moment. The kind of scene that
There's this thing happening when you're trying to write about time and life and all that heavy stuff. You sit down, fingers poised over the keys, ready to dispense
Imagine, if you will, that you're a contestant on some dystopian game show, standing before a series of identical doors. Behind one lies a fabulous prize—let's say a
There’s this thing with owning dogs1—and "owning" here needs to be taken with a salt-shaker full of qualifiers because, let’s be honest, no one really owns a dog