Conventional Misdeeds_A Normal Day, Until It Wasn't_Pink Top_sad clown paradox
Catalog Guide:
Conventional Misdeeds
It was that dawww.onedoor.ccy where I had learned several important lessons about life . . . I had maneuvered through the pedestrian traffic of the Capital, retrieved my entry pass and ID numbers from the ticket booth, raced into the modernized, warehouse-type convention center, and charged into the auditorium just in time to hear the introduction for the fabulous event. “Here in the majestic city of Washington D.C., we’ve got great lawyers, great whiners, and last but not least, great complainers! Hello, litigious plaintiffs! Accusatory prosecutors! All and sundry here with us today for this wickedly awes...
A Normal Day, Until It Wasn't
I was sitting on the MTA 42nd Street bus to Times Square, looking out the window, with my phone in my lap. Phones were a necessity when taking public transit. Not only did they allow you stay in touch with the world, they also allowed you to avoid the ever-awkward eye contact with the strangers and weirdos who also rode public transit. I’m a seasoned New Yorker, and because I’m a poor seasoned New Yorker who will never be able to afford a car, I’m pretty tight on my public transit survival skills. Sure, the trains were faster, but (a) there were fewer weirdos on busses compared to the freak...
Pink Top
'No, mother. I am not at that stage of my life,' said Ron to his mother. 'I know that son. No one is ready to take their biggest step in life. Ask your father about that. He was also shying away from this. Am I right?' said Ron's mom. She turned towards her husband and asked him again, this time with a louder voice. 'Am I right?' Ron's father calmly nodded his head in affirmation. 'Tell your son.' Ron's father switched his attention from the TV screen and said,' Son, whatever your mom is saying is true. Because after marriage, your wife is always right. And if you think that somehow she is o...
sad clown paradox
The metal arm from the airport chair left a red welt under Joel’s knee where his cargo shorts failed to provide cover. It was the dull pain that woke him in time to hear the ending of an announcement. He tucked his feet under his seat and searched his shorts for the loading ticket, after four pockets he found it wrapped in a wrinkled Wendy’s napkin. He compared the gate number on the ticket with the painted numbers above the flat screen monitor on the wall. A4, A4、“Excuse me.” He leaned across the aisle and addressed a young man who had his legs crossed and a sudoku puzzle resting on his lap. ...