It Was Clearly One Of Those Mornings

When I Worked In Theater, I Was Always Writing Things On Post-it Notes And Sticking Them On Screens Or Desks. Twitter Has Given Me A Way Of Continuing To Post Those Notes, Only A Lot Of Other People See Them, Too.

Sometimes I Even Felt Like He Dated Me As Part Of His Plan, Like They Were Going To Have A Checklist On The Application, And One Of The Things To Tick Off Was Going To Be, "do You Have A Reasonably Intelligent Girlfriend Who Shares Your Aspirations, And Who Is Fully Prepared To Accept Your Limited Availability?

Ah," He Said. "i Had An . . . Artistic Disagreement With The Director Of The Panto. As It Happens, I Take Issue With The Objectification Of Women In Cinderella, And The Reliance On Shoes As A Means Of Identification. Surely You Understand.

The Locker At The End Of Her Bed Had No Lock, And One Of The Hinges Was Busted. She Opened It Up. There Was A Thing In It. The Thing Might Have Been A Sandwich At Some Point, Or An Animal, Or A Human Hand...but What It Was Now Was Fuzzy And Putrid. A Minute Later, Ginny Was Down The Stairs, Out The Door, And Gone.

Hot Tea," He Said, Holding The Cups. "it's Just Wrong.