This week’s review: THE PIECES WE KEEP by Kristina McMorris
This book takes two stories from different decades told in alternating chapters and deftly ties them together so convincingly that you’ll be left breathless at the pinnacle.
In the story of this decade we find Audra Hughes still grappling with the death of her husband two years ago whilst raising her 7 year old son Jack. Audra is questioning every single choice she makes and feels the strain of being a single mother. Jack is quiet and withdrawn and begins having night terrors. Soon Audra is summoned to Jack’s school to look at drawings that he’s done that depict horrific and violent scenes including fiery plane crashes and swastikas. Jack has never been exposed to such things. It is inexplicable that he could possibly have this knowledge.
Yet he does.
In 1939 London, Vivian meets Isaak and they fall in love. On the cusp of WWII, these lovers will be torn apart. Will Vivian ever come to know what happened to Isaak? And how do these two stories of a young Mother and her son and two young lovers become so intertwined that pages blur by while your heart rate quickens?
Believable characters fill this book. From Audra’s desperation to reach her son and help him to stop living someone else’s nightmare to Vivian pining for a man she left in war-torn London. There is love, loss, betrayal, forgiveness and healing brilliantly represented in the alternating chapters of this book.
It has been days since I finished this book and I struggle to put together a review that will help any of you to grasp what this author has accomplished. Typically when I close one book I have no difficulty opening a new book within moments. I am so invested in these characters and this story that I’ve scarcely read a page since I finished THE PIECES WE KEEP by Kristina McMorris , an author whose work I’m just discovering. The very first chapter will leave you reeling~~and you won’t stop reeling even long after you’ve finished the last words.
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Maryellen is a 46-year-old avid reader, runner, and reviewer who lives near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her husband Mike and their two rowdy cats. The fact that she has a car named RoxyBlue and has a phone named Janet (Miss Jackson if you’re nasty) are only two of a million reasons why I love her. Couple that with her insight, intelligence, and her always half-full glass of optimism and it makes for an exceptional book reviewer. I am lucky to have the honor of Maryellen allowing me to post her reviews here every Monday.
This week’s review: THE CHRISTMAS ANGEL by Jane Maas
When in 1875 Owen Thomas, a poor Welsh coal miner, met Jessica Lavery, an actress from London, for him, it was love at first sight. As a show of Owen’s great love, he made a beautiful wooden angel with lavender eyes to match Jessica’s. An angel that would grace the top of their Christmas tree, a tree that family tradition would have stand proudly outdoors where it could look up to the heavens.
Some things are simply not meant to be.
Owen emigrated to America and with him he brought the beautiful wooden angel. This wooden angel would grace the top of Christmas trees for all the generations of Owen’s family. THE CHRISTMAS ANGEL is the story of what that ornament meant to each generation of Owen’s family over so many years.
In the first part of the book we learn so much about Owen through his letters sent to Jessica. I love this epistolary approach. Each subsequent part of the book tells the story of another generation ending with the story of the narrator, the Great-Granddaughter of Owen Thomas, the family historian.
It is little wonder that we’ll be seeing this book come to life as it has already been slated to become a television movie.
This story is lovely. Charming. Heartwarming. Tender. If you need some Christmas Spirit, you’ll find it in the pages of this book. If you have ever been handed down some cherished family heirloom and wondered what stories it would tell if it could talk, then this book will mesmerize you. I found myself thinking of this little Bible that I have that was written in German and has been handed down through so many generations in my family. I wonder where it has been and what it has meant to everyone who held it sacred. And I wonder too, what it will mean to the next person in my family who will inherit it from me.
This is the first book I’ve read from author Jane Maas and it certainly will not be the last.
I have been lucky enough to have won a few books now from Goodreads. Of all of them, this one makes me feel the luckiest. Thanks Goodreads. Merry Christmas to one and all.
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Maryellen is a 46-year-old avid reader, runner, and reviewer who lives near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her husband Mike and their two rowdy cats. The fact that she has a car named RoxyBlue and has a phone named Janet (Miss Jackson if you’re nasty) are only two of a million reasons why I love her. Couple that with her insight, intelligence, and her always half-full glass of optimism and it makes for an exceptional book reviewer. I am lucky to have the honor of Maryellen allowing me to post her reviews here every Monday.
Dear 2013,
You suck! I mean it. You really, really suck! You gave my dog cancer. You gave my teenage daughter hormones. You destroyed my career as a physician. At times, you challenged my marriage. You brought uncertainty and angst into my life. You messed with my head. You are the meanest year ever!
I’m sure you are too evil to care, but I’ve already BFF’d 2014! 2014 is so much better than you. 2014 could kick your sorry butt back into 2012. 2014 loves me. You, on the other hand, are incapable of love.
In fact, 2014 loves me so much that she has already started sprinkling magic Karma dust on me while I sleep. She’s also been casting spells to counteract your badness. 2014 is teaching me to forget about you, because that is the only way I can ultimately declare victory over your sorry hide. She is filling my heart with peace and sweeping away the layers of bitterness, hatred, and self-loathing that you brought into my life. She is giving me clarity and goals. She has promised to carry me on her silvery wings to a much better place, and I trust her implicitly.
“It is never too late to become what you might have been.”
~~ George Eliot
So let me give you and your malicious buddies a final farewell. Goodbye Judgment – your opinionated fog is burning away as we speak. Goodbye Anger – Tranquility has stepped in and pushed you away. Goodbye Confusion – 2014 is a beacon of light, guiding me in the right direction. Goodbye Intolerance – Acceptance and Love leave no room for you. Goodbye Irritability – Patience has filled the hole you bore in my heart.
2013, your days are numbered. As far as I’m concerned, they are already finished. Now, GET OUT!
Sincerely,
The New and Improved Sherry Gorman
This week’s review: A Christmas Home by Greg Kincaid
When Todd McCray was a teenager he became a hero to his community by helping the local animal shelter with a program that would have foster homes for all of the shelter dogs for Christmas (A Dog Named Christmas). Now twenty-four years old and working at the same shelter, Todd and his coworkers and his faithful dog, “Christmas”, are facing closing right before the holidays due to tough economic times in the community.
Todd has some developmental difficulties. Though he struggles with reading and some social situations, he’s very specially “abled” when it comes to being able to train the dogs. Todd’s best friend Laura volunteers at the shelter. Laura has some physical limitations and with Todd’s help, Laura now has a rescue dog named “Gracie” who can help her with day-to-day tasks.
“’Dad, can I ask you something else?’ Todd looked at his father and gave voice to something he had been thinking about for days, probably for weeks—maybe even months. ‘What does it feel like to be in love?’”
Will the dedicated workers and volunteers of the Crossing Trails Animal Shelter, a no-kill shelter, be able to find homes for all of the abandoned animals before they may have to surrender them to neighboring shelters that are unable to maintain a no-kill status?
A couple of weeks ago my husband and I were watching a Hallmark movie that I loved but didn’t catch the name of; turns out it was the TV movie adaptation of the very first book in this series. I had no idea when I picked up A CHRISTMAS HOME to read that I’d be continuing on with the story told in that movie. What a lovely Christmas surprise!
The author, Greg Kincaid, helped to start the very real program “Foster a Lonely Pet for the Holidays” that has found homes for tens of thousands of shelter dogs. If you’re in a position to foster a lonely pet over Christmas, here’s the link: http://www.petfinder.com/fosteralonel….
If you’re looking for a book filled with Christmas Spirit and some very lovable characters (humans as well as dogs!); then you’ll love this book. I sure did.
Merry Christmas!
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Thank you Maryellen for a review and a book filled with Holiday Spirit!
Maryellen is a 46-year-old avid reader, runner, and reviewer who lives near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her husband Mike and their two rowdy cats. The fact that she has a car named RoxyBlue and has a phone named Janet (Miss Jackson if you’re nasty) are only two of a million reasons why I love her. Couple that with her insight, intelligence, and her always half-full glass of optimism and it makes for an exceptional book reviewer. I am lucky to have the honor of Maryellen allowing me to post her reviews here every Monday.
Yesterday around 12:30 p.m., a local television station reported “shots fired” and an “active shooter” at Arapahoe High School in Littleton, Colorado. Like most midday news, I allowed approximately 5% of my neurons to process the information, but the remaining 95% quickly kicked in. Fifteen minutes later, the station had someone on the scene. As with most news stories in evolution, information was scant – two confirmed victims . . . still an active shooter situation . . . all Littleton Public Schools on lockdown. I sat on the bed, mesmerized by the images of teenage children marching out of their school with their hand above their heads, taking turns being patted down by law enforcement.
The reality still hadn’t completely set in. But, as reality is prone to do, within minutes it rose up and kicked me in the teeth. I have two friends with teenage children who attend Arapahoe (all of whom are safe). The school is 7.1 miles from my house and 6.5 miles from my daughter’s school.
Oh my God! My daughter!
I jump in my car at 1:30 and head to her school. On the way there, the radio station announces Douglas County School District is on lockdown. Red light. I can do nothing but wait for it to cycle to green. Meanwhile, I send her a text: “Shooter at Arapahoe HS. On my way. Be ready to leave!” The light turns green, and I drive 70 mph to the school, pull up in front, and park illegally – behind the growing mob of terrified mothers doing the same.
We all hold up our driver’s licenses at the door to confirm to the security guy that we aren’t bad guys. He checks us one-by-one and lets us in. Once inside, the situation overwhelms me. I become wracked with tears, unable to speak. The Principle asks my child’s name. All that comes out is sobs. He nods and says, “I know who she is. We’ll get her.”
The whole time I’m waiting, all I can think is that I want my baby. I send her another text: “I’m here now. They are coming for you.” “Okay,” she answers. It takes ten minutes for her to arrive.
During that time, I can’t imagine what the parents at Arapahoe must be enduring – peeking through a wire fence from 100 yards away at a group of kids and hoping one of them belongs to you. Maybe if they look hard enough, they can spot a sweatshirt or a pair of shorts that looks familiar.
As for the kids, what terror it must have evoked for them to first huddle in corners for their lives and then be marched out like criminals, unsure if the shooter might be the kid in front or behind them trying to blend in and escape. How it must have felt to be herded to a local church or bussed to a nearby middle school – distanced from their parents and held captive until claimed.
The worst part is the victim. I know the awful, selfish, but undeniable truth that every AHS parent whispered over and over again. “Please, don’t let that be my child.” I’m not passing judgment. I thought the same thing about my friends’ children. But the young girl who endured hours of surgery yesterday and remains in critical condition belongs to somebody. One group of parents may have uttered that wish, only to find out their worst nightmare is a reality. May God and medical science be on their side.
The officials – our brave first responders – did a nearly perfect-picture job. The janitor who first called in the situation is a hero. I suppose there are many heroes, and we are lucky to have them all.
But here are the questions I posed to the other freaked out mothers waiting for their children: When are we going to get serious? How many students are going to walk into a school carrying a firearm and a vendetta before we make it stop? How many innocent children are going to be shot and either critically injured or killed before we realize what we are doing is inadequate?
What is to stop a child from loading a gun into their backpack and unloading it into the crowd during lunch? Nothing.
What is to stop some renegade whack job from busting through the entrance security – which is sadly nothing more than a school secretary who asks to see identification – and start using our kids as target practice? Nothing.
What good does it do to have the police stop by schools to complete their paperwork or otherwise fill their down time in order to give the impression of increased police presence at schools? It does nothing.
What sense does it make that in order to attend a Rockies’ baseball game, I have to let them search my bag, yet I can walk into a building filled with precious children and never be asked to do the same? It makes no sense.
We file our children into a building everyday. A building with numerous paths of entry and exit. A building where the children and staff are defenseless. A building that doesn’t screen for bad guys. A building covered with Band-Aids on an open wound that will continue to ooze until we do more.
I don’t know what more is, but I know we aren’t even close to preventing this from happening tomorrow or next week or next month. Should staff members carry firearms? Maybe. Should we have metal detectors at school entrances? Perhaps. Should an armed officer instead of a secretary control the entry points? It’s worthy of consideration.
After an agonizing wait during which my heart choked with every beat, I finally saw the teal-green scarf my daughter wore to school. I laid eyes on her long, blonde hair. My blue eyes met her green ones. I didn’t care how foolish or emotional or crazed I appeared. I rushed to my baby and squished her tight, my tears falling into her hair. In her teenage coolness, she told me, “Mom, please don’t cry. It’s just a lockdown.”
“This Sucks!”
I mean, like super sucks!
I recently read a medical thriller that was so truly awful, it pissed me off. The story line was completely implausible. Medical facts were as wrong as wrong can be. Characters’ actions bore no basis in reality. Typos and grammatical errors riddled every page. Halfway through, I began to curse the author for handing something to the public that was so poorly done. The author’s lack of pride in her work felt like a personal insult against me – the reader.
This book blows.
Delete.
This book really blows.
Delete.
This book is square and nicely bound.
Delete.
And then it came time to review the book. I spent hours writing, deleting, and rewriting. At one point, I even posted a brutally honest review. Not ten minutes passed before I took the post down. I just couldn’t do it. No matter how much the book sucked – it was actually in its own stratosphere of suck – I couldn’t blast the author to smithereens. By the same token, I couldn’t force myself to tone down the review. To do so would have been to provide inaccurate and undeserved approval of the book.
“Tell me about your father . . . “
This experience has haunted me for over a month, so I decided to hop onto my psychoanalysis couch and bust out the Freud. The obvious answer as to why I couldn’t post a negative (yet accurate) review is self-preservation. I don’t want to make enemies within the author community. But that reason is too superficial. Freud would feel let down, so I searched deeper.
Nope. Not the Electra Complex.
Sorry Sigmund. It has nothing to do with my hysterical uterus or a lust for my father. The real reason that I can’t write the review is that I cannot bring myself to make this author feel the pain of being put down. I’ve been there. During my medical training and throughout my career as a physician, below-the-belt insults were commonplace. As an author, I’ve received a small number of reviews that were less than stellar. I think some people call them the “one-stars.” A fair portion of the one-stars attacked me – not my book. I know how bad that feels, and I just couldn’t do that to somebody else. In spite of my ornery streak and feistiness, I am not capable of being mean to a perfect stranger. Even under the burden of being honest.
Her book is by the left ball — look closely.
So, I am officially shelving any future attempts at this review. The author will never know her book sucked monkey testicles. But, I won’t ruin her day either. And if you ask me if your butt looks fat in those jeans, I’ll probably say no . . . and then go make fun of you behind your back.
“Pssst, did you hear about that book that sucks monkey balls?”
My husband says I’m “rough around the edges.” My current shrink says my mind is in a state of transition, and I may be prone to emotional lability while my neurons sort themselves out. My last shrink said, “the demons always come back for an encore performance before they finally exit the stage.” My BFF says to lay off the PsychoMom stuff – there are scarier PsychoMoms than me, and some of them may be packing.
So what do I think? I’m the proverbial square peg in the round hole. My head is like a crazy buffet. Case in point: The Carpool Line Situation . . .
Let me set the stage. A bunch of rich women (hereinafter referred to as idiot drones) go to pick up their kids in their $80K SUVs. They are narcissistic, pampered, and blissfully oblivious to the world below them. What could go wrong?
This is where my Asperger’s kicks in. Their line-up technique is inefficient. They leave excessive gaps between cars, thereby minimizing the number of cars that can successfully dock and forcing the carpool line to extend 0.52 miles down the road. By my calculations, if they would each pull forward, another 6.2 cars could fit into the pickup area.
On a chilly, snow-covered day last week, one of the idiot drones created such a gap. There was 4.72 feet behind her and 15.5 feet in front of her. Fortunately, my car is 15.16 feet long. I parallel parked in a three-point maneuver that would have won a gold medal.
With the last adjustment completed, I peeked in my rearview mirror. The idiot drone’s arms were having a seizure, and her facial muscles were in spasm. I turned around and shooed her back with my hands, hoping she would put her car in reverse and grace me with a few extra feet of space. She shook her head.
At that point, my Adjustment Disorder kicked in. I did what anyone who escalates on a dime would do – I stepped out of my car and walked up to her window. Her eyes bugged out a little, although it was hard to notice anything past her perfect makeup and pixie haircut. She reluctantly rolled her window down, and I asked her to back up four feet. She said, “no.” Then she pointed out that if I arrived earlier, I wouldn’t have to fight for a space. But she didn’t stop there. In her high-pitched, snarky voice, she said, “And it’s illegal to park in a cross walk.”
Double Crap!
I glanced at my car. Crap! The markings on the road were covered by snow, but she was right. She may have just taken my Bishop, but I was still in the game. Impulse control disorder sprinkled with Tourette’s syndrome to the rescue. The words bypassed my filter and shot out of my mouth like little missiles.
“I’m just glad for your sake it’s not illegal to be a bitch.”
My words hung in the frosty air between us. I stomped back to my car and prayed the Carpool Gestapo didn’t catch me before my daughter jumped in the car. The idiot drone refused to budge and so did I.
As I sat in my car, my Anxiety Disorder and my Oppositional-Defiant Disorder engaged in a war. I craved a Klonopin. My pulse quickened while my eyes shifted between the carpool cop and the school’s front door. Pedestrians shimmied past the front of my car. My throat tightened on a lump of potential defeat. Then my daughter emerged from the crowd. I won.
Sherry – One, Idiot Drone – Zero.
When I reflect upon the situation with my psychoanalytic looking glass, I realize maybe I shouldn’t have squeezed into the spot. Maybe I shouldn’t have stepped out of my car and confronted the pixie. Maybe I shouldn’t have articulated the fact that she’s a female dog. Maybe I should have moved once I became aware that I was blocking the crosswalk.
And let her win? Never. Crazy trumps snob any and every day of the week.
This week’s review: HUMANS OF NEW YORK by Brandon Stanton
Are you a people-watcher? I am. I love sitting on a bench on the boardwalk, watching the people go by and imagining their lives. In HUMANS OF NEW YORK, photographer Brandon Stanton took people watching to the next level. In 2010 he set out to “singlehandedly create a photographic census of New York City.” First came his very successful blog, http://www.humansofnewyork.com/, then came this book of some of the best photographs of people that I have ever seen captioned with just enough of a blurb to send your imagination into overdrive.
Prior to becoming a full-time photographer, Brandon Stanton was a bond trader in Chicago. When the bottom fell out of that job, he turned to his love of photography and his blog was born. Traveling from Chicago to New York, Stanton made stops in between to photograph the faces and places of Pittsburgh and Philadelphia; but it wasn’t until he made it to New York City that he found his calling. Humans. Amazingly these New Yorkers stopped whatever they were doing to spend a few moments with the photographer to pose for a photo and tell him a little bit about themselves. The result is this book version of people watching.
What a brilliant idea. This is a book that I’ll keep. I won’t be giving it away. I read the book cover to cover soaking in all of the photos and the captions. Yet, each time I open it, I see something new. This book is the perfect gift to give to that hard to buy for person in your life.
Here’s hoping that this photographer keeps snapping photos and sharing them with all of us.
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This book sounds amazing! Kudos to Brandon Stanton for bringing these people into our lives!
Maryellen is a 46-year-old avid reader, runner, and reviewer who lives near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her husband Mike and their two rowdy cats. The fact that she has a car named RoxyBlue and has a phone named Janet (Miss Jackson if you’re nasty) are only two of a million reasons why I love her. Couple that with her insight, intelligence, and her always half-full glass of optimism and it makes for an exceptional book reviewer. I am lucky to have the honor of Maryellen allowing me to post her reviews here every Monday.
This week’s review: NBC’s live performance of THE SOUND OF MUSIC
Starring: Carrie Underwood and Stephen Moyer
Televised Date: December 5, 2013
My Review:
Culture? Musicals? Classics? I’m a girl who was raised on boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, Pizza Rolls, and a daily dose of General Hospital. The closest I ever came to a classic was when Luke and Laura got married.
Last night, I decided to break free from my trailer park of unsophistication and put lipstick on a pig. NBC televised a live remake of THE SOUND OF MUSIC. My daughter and I snuggled up in bed, turned on the fireplace, and tasted a new form of art.
Midway through the show, my teenage daughter proclaimed, “This has too much singing. I can’t take it anymore. I’m out.” So she took her MacBook Pro and scurried back to the land of tin homes.
If I were honest, when I saw there was an hour and a half remaining, I wanted to bail, too. But I forced myself to make it to the end. And I’m glad I did.
The presentation was amazing. For a live show, I noticed only one small hiccough with a camera. From the actors, the production seemed flawless. It was evident that the cast really cared. I can only imagine the hours spent rehearsing. It was like the good old days when people took pride in what they did – when anything less than perfection was unacceptable. I like that standard. Their effort was probably lost on most, but I certainly appreciated it and was deeply impressed.
As the show continued, I learned to appreciate the choreography. I noticed the genius utilization of a limited number of sets. I particularly enjoyed the bedroom scene where seven children peered out one-by-one from beneath the bed, continuing to bring the show alive from underneath a mattress. There weren’t any fireworks or flying cars and alien life forms. The show had to carry itself on its quality, and it did a damned fine job!
Before the show, I knew very little about Carrie Underwood. Of course, I knew her name and that she sings country music, but that’s the extent of it. After last night, she can add one more fan to her list of millions. Her singing ability speaks for itself. But my admiration extends beyond her God-given talents. During the production, I could see in her eyes something deep and pure. She’s the real deal – a class act through and through. And even on television, her undeniable external beauty is nothing compared to the beauty that shines from within. Whatever “it” is, she has “it.”
The last thing that struck me was the innocence of the production. It was truly reminiscent of a different era. Without a doubt, a much better era. A time in our history where high collars and long skirt lengths were the norm for women, and men dressed in three-piece suits. An era where women’s breasts weren’t exposed within millimeters of their areolas. People back then conducted themselves with manners and poise. In contrast to today, the musical provided a sad commentary on how far our values have fallen.
Maybe I’m evolving. Last night was a good start.
My rating: ★★★★★
You know the game. Would you rather eat a Rocky Mountain Oyster or french kiss a mule? Would you rather do something valuable with your time or take a glimpse into the sickness that lives within Sherry? Would you rather hobble Santa or the Easter Bunny? If you are still reading this, you just fell down the rabbit hole. Enjoy the ride.
Would you rather have dinner first, or go straight to a motel?
First you give me a pearl necklace and then you can give me a pearl necklace.
Dinner first! Why give it up for free?
Would you rather have a freakishly huge smile or a freakishly small nose?
At least he never had to borrow a tissue.
The smile. The nose didn’t work for Michael Jackson, and I’m sure I would fare much worse.
Would you rather be trapped in an elevator with wet dogs or with three fat men with bad breath?
The worst part is what goes in must come out!
Bad breath from above soon becomes bad breath from below!
Definitely the dogs. They will eventually dry. Lock big, smelly guys in a confined space and two things are certain – they aren’t going to get any smaller nor will their scent improve.
Would you rather run your tongue down ten feet of a New York City street or press your tongue into a strangers nostril?
No Way!
I’d lick the street in a New York minute. I have a thing against boogers.
Would you rather have a firecracker blow up in your mouth, or drill a small hole in your own forehead?
“Uh, how come there’s an echo in your Bindi?”
A small hole in my forehead. I’ll just cover it with a fake ruby and tell everyone I have a Bindi.
Would you rather swim in a pool for an hour of human blood, or hang upside down for 8 hours?
The bitterness will never die.
Do I get to pick who donates to the pool? I have a short list of deserving DBs in mind.
Would you rather have a missing finger or have an extra toe?
The only finger that really matters.
As long as I get to keep at least one middle finger, I’m neutral.
Would you rather have every single hair on your body plucked, or every fingernail ripped off?
TMI?
Seeing as I already have a head start on body hair, I’ll go with that option.
Would you rather always get first dibs or the last laugh?
Perfect Example.
The last laugh. I hate being wrong.
Would you rather be a giant hamster or a tiny rhino?
I’m so much more important in my world than you are in yours!
Giant hamster. It’s always best to be the big fish in a small pond.
Would you rather be a tree or live in a tree?
Why would anyone choose this?
Duh, live in a tree. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as a urine pole for drunken men and dogs.
Would you rather be able to hear any conversation or take back anything you say?
It’s an illness.
Take back anything I say. I know it’s hard to believe, but I say a lot of really stupid things.
Would you rather be able to fly or turn invisible?
“Sir, I have no idea how you got served a cup of toilet water.”
Turn invisible. I would wreck havoc. First stop . . . the line at Starbucks.
Would you rather be able to lie without being caught or always be able to tell when someone is lying?
I got two over on you, Barry!
I can already do both.
Would you rather shave your eyebrows or accidently send a nasty computer virus to 1000 of your friends?
If it’s you vs. me . . . well.
The computer virus. Ask Darwin – life is all about self preservation.
So there you have it. Be nice to me, buy me dinner, don’t pee on my leg, always let me win, and we’ll be best friends forever!
thewritemd 