...But he was a good landlord. When my heater stopped working in mid-December, it took him only two weeks to get it fixed. Of course, it took me knocking on his door in need of a warm place to sleep to get it that way, but one night on his sofa, where I’d suddenly developed night terrors and epilepsy, and that puppy was running like a Mercedes the next day. It was awesome.

Dude,” I said, leaning over the desk, “I’m about as psychic as a carrot.

He bombarded me with words, of all things, apparently clueless to the fact that the predawn hours rendered me incapable of coherent thought.

Let me express how much I don't care on a scale of one to bite me," the former detective said.

It is sexy in here or is it just me?

He seemed determines, his resolve unwavering. This would take tact. Prudence. Possible Milk Duds.

I love language, words, and all the lovely, exciting, and heart wrenching things you can do with them. Pick the right ones, put them in the right order, and you’ve created a moment in time where the reader forgets about the late car payment, the dirty dishes, the impending workweek. You have created a state of bliss. Or negligence, depending on your perspective.