No Milk on Sunday “Damn it.” I groan as I pour the last splash of milk into my cereal bowl. I shake the carton, as if some stockade were still lodged inside. When that doesn’t work, I stare at the cereal, as if the preexisting milk will duplicate in the bowl. It’s not like stranger things haven’t happened to me. After I grasp the reality that the milk is well and truly gone, I cross out the breakfast entry on the third page of my food diary, write “bran flakes with milk” in the lunch column, and get dressed. I don’t look in the full length mirror in my room before grabbing my wallet to start on my reluctant ve
Client Confidentiality “I’m just saying I don’t feel comfortable with him staying here with you.” He followed her into the office, closing the door behind him a bit harder than he meant to. “He’s confused and missing a wing,” she said, sitting behind the desk and folding her hands on the desktop. “Besides, he’s an angel, for Christ’s sake. There’s a better probability of being attacked by a rabid mailbox.” He planted his hands palms down on the desk. “But where did he come from, why doesn’t he remember anything, how did he get a friggin’ wing torn off?” He jabbed the
((OMGILOVETHISSOMUCH))
((IMSOHAPPY))
BECAUSE MERIDA WOULD LOVE THE DRAGONS.