Unquestionably, my husband was right; there were and still are many things wrong with me. On top of my empty-nest crisis and puppy training, I live with chronic pain.
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The pool of glowing crimson collecting under it, traces of the life my father had taken, stained the floor for months. It was an art, he said.
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I rocked back and forth, still holding onto the headrest, singing those lyrics, whether it was the chorus or verse or that freaky middle part with the wailing
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But I didn’t swim and when we were all settled back around the fire, it seemed as if the shame clung wetly to me as we all dried off.
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I still maintained the faint desire to have a go in the ring and it remained an unfulfilled ambition.
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The singer shuffles onto stage and it’s like seeing an old family friend who hasn’t been around for a while. His face is getting lined and his stage presence is ...
How accurate is the information we receive via wikipedia, anyway?
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I once knew a woman like these three girls,” said Kamanga, “who think they are too good for some men.
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Hannah, we care about you and the memories you share here. We thought you’d like to look back on this photo of you from exactly five years ago today.
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In the end, perhaps it is these mementoes and relics, the ones that exist only to be bought and burnt up, that tell us the most about what we value.
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. The didactic purpose of the frescos is clear from the strap-line at the base of the Allegory of Good Government, which begins “Turn your eyes to behold her, you ...
I can deal with the snoring. The problem is that we bought a house. Buying a sweater is hard enough
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With every cell of my body feeling like I don’t belong here any more and will never ever want to, I heard every graffiti letter, every foul corner, every turnstile ...
So this is East Germany, 1972. We scramble for our passports, watching passengers exit under machine guns aimed at our train from atop nineteenth-century iron catwalks arching above the tracks. ...
It’s always one of two nightmares: I’m either trapped in a room with a many-faced man, or he’s chasing me into the street outside my childhood home.
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The cop climbs in the back seat and introduces himself, Naim. Like many Afghans he has just one name.
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Do it then, you fuck. Fuck you, you think as you lean into the wind and throttle down hard, gunning the bike just feet from the glistening blue Maserati’s rear ...
I don’t remember the kid’s name; the only impression he made on me was his face: scabbed over, crusted with dried blood all across his chin.
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“Η καρδιά. Yi kardiá. Heart.”
“Η βάρκα. Yi várka. Boat.”
“Η χώρα. Yi hóra. Country.”
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Forgive them, for they like their women dead
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