Flying should feel efficient and indulgent. Flying should feel efficient and indulgent.
Except it’s neither.Except it’s neither.
Flying should feel efficient and indulgent. Flying should feel efficient and indulgent.
Except it’s neither.Except it’s neither.
This is when, at the ripe old age of almost 19, that I realized that life is like the blank page of a book waiting to be written.
Every time I pack for a trip, I hear my mom’s voice in my head. And she isn’t saying “be safe,” or other stuff moms could remind their stubborn daughter.
On the evening of December 23, we drove to downtown Ottawa in a blizzard. Why? Because we’re Canadians and we fucking drive in a blizzard if needed, that’s why.
I’m about to send my last two queries of the year. It sounds very final and dramatic, but after all, 2018 is right around the corner.
“I haven’t even started my Christmas shopping,” a close friend of mine confessed over the phone. “I mean, when am I supposed to go?"
We deal with snow much like parents deal with a 12-month old eating spaghetti and tomato sauce by himself—amazed by the fact something mundane can create such a giant mess.
On December 1, Feng and I had a combined fever of 80ºC, and suddenly, writing to Santa was no longer a priority.