We traveled for two weeks with a pickled hippo.

At this moment, the story in his head was perfect. He also knew from experience that it would degenerate the second he started typing, because such was the nature of writing.

Sometimes I think if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I'd choose the corn.

I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.

The thought has cheered me, and I'd like to hang onto that. Must protect my little pockets of happiness.

When did I stop being me?

When I first submerged my feet into frigid water, they hurt so badly I yanked them out again. I persisted, dunking them for longer and longer periods, until the cold finally blistered.