Sometimes We Don't Know What We Want

Cats And Their Owners Are On A Private, Exclusive Loop Of Affection. Thus Cats Have Become Symbolic Of A Community Eschewed And A Hyper-engagement With Oneself. They Represent The Profound Danger Of Growing So Independent In New York That It's Not Merely That You Don't Need Anyone - It's That You Don't Know How To Need Anyone.

When I Was Nine Years Old, I Wrote A Short Story Called 'how To Build A Snowman,' From Which No Practical Snowperson-crafting Techniques Could Be Gleaned. The Story Was An Assignment For Class And It Featured A Series Of Careful But Meaningless Instructions. Of Course, The Building Of The Snowman Was A Red Herring.

Are There Moments When I See Unrequited Crushes Or Ex-boyfriends Slow Dancing With Their Dates And Kind Of Want To Stab Myself In The Spleen With A Salad Fork? Yeah, Sure.

I Used To Think That Nails-down-a-chalkboard Was The Worst Sound In The World. Then I Moved On To People-eating-cereal-on-the-phone. But Only This Week Did I Stumble Across The Rightful Winner: It's The Sound Of A Baggage Carousel Coming To A Grinding Halt, Having Reunited Every Passenger On Your Flight With Their Luggage, Except For You.

My Grandmother Was A Kind Of Scarsdale, New York, Society Woman, Best Known In Her Day As The Author Of The 1959 Book 'growing Your Own Way: An Informal Guide For Teen-agers' - This Despite Being A Person Whose Parenting Style Made Joan Crawford's Wire Hangers Look Like Pool Noodles.