Jesus makes it so that robots can feel joy.
(EDIT October 2008: The library of image thumbnails did not port from the old site, but that link will work just fine.)
Because Internet.
Jesus makes it so that robots can feel joy.
(EDIT October 2008: The library of image thumbnails did not port from the old site, but that link will work just fine.)
Personal ad rejected by The Baltimore Sun
Me: Early 30s, fit, good sense of humor, loves to travel, recently moved to the area and looking to meet a new special someone.
You: Late 20s to early 30s, brown hair, green eyes, 5’ 6”-ish, great laugh, likes wine and scary movies, enjoys a night of dancing now and then, shy but self-assured, scared of heights, gets along well with dogs, not so much with cats, reads great literature but prefers mysteries, does a mean “Heart of Glass” in karaoke, fell into publishing because that’s what English majors do, still dreams of opening an art gallery, worries that the merger will make work a real pain in the ass, applied to Cornell but had to settle for Swarthmore, probably should’ve been more up front with the parents about being on academic probation, doesn’t regret a moment of the semester off, cried when Kurt Cobain shot himself, has never told a soul how much she likes Applebee’s, won’t drive stick since the accident, got cut from the field hockey team in 11th grade, which was fine because they were all about the clique thing anyway, ran for Honor Society Treasurer, hid how relieved she was when Dad moved back in, has lost 3 cell phones including a Blackberry, knows more about “Lost” than about the French Revolution, would work out more if the gym were closer, tried yoga but couldn’t get into it, tripped and broke a wrist playing a shepherd in the 4th grade Christmas pageant, preferred swings to the merry-go-round, used to hide in the attic during thunderstorms, once dumped a guy after he pointed out it would have made more sense to hide in the basement, gets all sweaty before speaking in front of a group, will never own a hammer, and makes a pretty damn good chili.
Let’s get together and see what happens.
Red Wings fan a plus.
… or, “I’m Probably The One With The Problem”
You sat still and proper
Your yogurt low-fat, plain, sensible
You did not rustle the bag
You did not breathe through your nose
You brought your own spoon
The right thing to do
And only clicked your teeth on the metal
Once or twice
You were done by 57th Street
And yet
It still drove me
Up the goddamn wall.
Prior to 1876, baseballs were made by wrapping leather around a core of orphans’ hair. Teams would go to orphanages and shear the children bald; standard payment to the headmaster was 2 pennies and a burlap sack. Many players believed that the uglier the orphan, the more hop the ball had. A particularly well hit ball became known as a “homely hit” or “homely run,” eventually shortened to “home run.” Cork became the standard core with the formation of the National League.