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tomorrow I will don a white, lacy dress and Jake will button up a well-fitting green shirt and new black slacks. together we will go to the courthouse and repeat our vows after the judge while our families and friends watch.
it feels peacefully inevitable, like the climax of a really, really good book about two people who love each other fiercely.
and then the fun begins.
The stories I tell are all, in some way or other, my story. They are confessions.
poor Alex Clare. no one knows who he is. he’s just “the guy who wrote the Internet Explorer 9 commercial song”
I’ve decided that my next career goal is to be head of a department. a particular department. that department does not yet exist. I must make it.
n. a recurring thought that only seems to strike you late at night—an overdue task, a nagging guilt, a looming and shapeless future—that pecks at the back your mind while you try to sleep, only to squawk when you try to feed it, that you can successfully ignore for weeks, only to feel its presence hovering just outside the window, waiting for you to finish your coffee, passing the time by quietly building a nest.
