funny
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I don’t trust white feet. If they haven’t seen the sun,how could they ever walk in my shoes?Or pretend to. Feet in robes?Think flip-flops—hardly up to the task,if you ask me. Blindfolded,they go where they’re told,peeking only at day’s end,no longer pretendingthey don’t smell,or that they’re a size smaller, larger,girl, boy. Brown, cracked,leather stretched over
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the old woman is making a war in the other room— shoving anything not nailed down, raising more dust than she ever sweeps up. I don’t look. looking is an invitation. and it’s Saturday. and Sunday is coming. “preach it,” I whisper to no one. I hold my phone like it’s a holy book. feel
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“Chancho. When you are a man, sometimes you wear stretchy pants.” Nacho Libre Nacho Libre drops that gem on his sidekick while getting busted in his luchador tights, and damn if it didn’t sneak-attack my brain the other day. Picture this: I’m crawling along the freeway, soul-crushing traffic turning my car into a rolling therapy
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—have you ever broken a bone? Picture this: a scrappy backyard baseball diamond, cobbled together by three siblings with big dreams and zero budget. First base? A sickly, half-dead plant wheezing in a faded terracotta pot, so heavy we nearly busted a gut dragging it into place. Bits of clay flaked off, sticking to my
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It’s 4 p.m., and my inbox is a graveyard of emails that feel important but probably aren’t—digital paperweights holding down nothing but my will to live. The world spins on. Whether I reply today or tomorrow won’t matter to anyone, least of all me. Earlier, I take my mother to the doctor. Routine physical, except
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Favorite Brands? Let’s Get Real When I saw today’s prompt about favorite brands, my mind did a quick catwalk strut to the usual suspects: Hermès, Gucci, Rolex—those high-end logos that scream “I’ve made it!” (or at least fake it ‘til you make it). In my younger, slightly delusional years, I’d splurge on stuff I couldn’t
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What are your favorite emojis? Truth be told, I’m not a fan of emojis. Sure, they’re quick, snappy, and sometimes hit the mark for both sender and receiver. But let’s be real—when they miss, they miss. Back in the day (yep, dusting off my ancient credentials here), we’d pick up the phone, swing by someone’s
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Fiji, 1980s. The sun’s a smug bastard, grinning down, reminding me it’s summer here while Los Angeles shivers. Waves lap at the shore, warm as a lover’s whisper, every thirty seconds or so. I’m eighteen, cocky, standing in nemo-print trunks—pre-movie, mind you, maybe I inspired Pixar. Signed up for this swim-snorkel-underwater-cave deal. Sounded like a
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Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind. At precisely 1:30 a.m., I made the kind of discovery no archaeologist dreams of: the third shard of glass embedded delicately into the bottom of my unsuspecting bare foot. I jumped back like a startled ballerina, teetering heroically on one leg as my hand, still
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Music prompt mind, Six months in a leaky boat. Cruising down the freeway—feeling that fleeting “free” way vibe—I had Split Enz’s “Six Months in a Leaky Boat” blasting through my speakers. The wind was whipping, the lyrics were hitting, but as usual, my brain played its favorite game: swapping out half-heard words for whatever nonsense
BB Grey--musings 