Another doorway opens and two more guys come through the door with guns. “What is this?” one guy says.
“This is our room. We’re here to get Ed.” “So are we.”
I’d been in Stateline for four days, trying to find a coke dealer named Daniel Fowler. He was the reason my friend Powell was headed to San Quentin, or so I’d been told.
If you’re the type of person whose eye twitches when someone bookmarks a page by folding the corner, let your spouse be the one to read to the baby.
Apparently my five year old daughter told her kindergarten teacher that if she ever gets married she’s going to walk down the aisle to AC/DC’s “Hells Bells.”
Most men will not read this. Men don’t want to read about other men’s parenting experiences.
“Fortunately we got to her in time, you know, before the blaze could spread,” Jessica said.
For how many more years will you host the birthday pool party with the pizza and the cake from the grocery store . . .
As one of the more common breeds of spineless parents I am a huge fan of giving in the demands of my two-year-old. She’s an F5 cyclone of a girl full of wildly fluctuating emotions and I’m the house made out of straw.