Steam hisses as Adam descends from a ladder. He lands on the tiles, my floors shuddering under his weight. With nimble fingers he unzips his pressure suit and climbs out of the bulk.
My favourite book is The Catcher in the Rye. My favourite band is The Smiths. I can barely leave the house without a copy of Sylvia Plath’s Ariel in my backpack. I get it. I am a Sad Boy.
What do Will Smith, Freddie Prinze Jr, Snoop Dogg, Rory Gilmore, and all three of Michael Jackson’s children have in common? They were all named after their parents. The gifting of names from parent to child is an age old tradition; historically handy for passing on kingdoms, business empires and family legacies.
Amidst fake news, big data, climate change and human rights violations, we can all agree that the state of politics is grim.
There was a girl. She was bright and bubbly. She had dreams and desires. She had a large friendship group and a smile that you could spot from across the room. She liked to listen to indie rock and wear floral skirts to class on Fridays.
