The theater’s free sparkling water nips my nose and snaps me from my trance long enough to think about one of my nephews hundreds of miles away. The memory seems random at first.
During the holidays, I love to send Christmas cards to my family, but I’m always scrambling to find their addresses. Addresses I’ve been sending letters to for years. I just never write them down or save them. Because I am nothing if not inefficient!
Maybe I’m misremembering, but isn’t there a G-20 rule that Pitbull is only allowed to be played strictly between the hours of 11pm and 4am? You know, the timeframe when you can shamelessly acknowledge that you somehow know every word to every Pitbull lyric. Of which there are three.