Jay Gawel

Horrible. Absolutely and completely senseless. Lives, forever ruined in an instant. Endemic terror reverberates from the epicenter shattering our collective sense of normalcy. We dupe ourselves into believing we’re immune. The news seems so far from our insulated bubble.

What I received was no sandwich; it was more akin to a small raft of bread floating atop a congealed caloric ocean on its voyage to Type II diabetes.

I know it’s an uphill battle, but capitalism and science aren’t sleeping; nope, they’re out there every day, hustling to make drugs stronger, cheaper, and easier to obtain.

“Honey, we’ve gone over this; Jane and I are just catching up today.”

Easy, easy, simmer down, there’s plenty of scraps for everyone in this office fridge.

Actual girls, girls we knew, had willingly kissed us, and then, in a twist, they’d kept on kissing us!

I’d never know the parents and their litter of children who had left this litter bonanza for me, but I knew then that they would always be a part of my life.

I’m sorry, Dad, I honestly didn’t think people were going to be sad at this thing since it was only Aunt May who died.

I should just man up and take the pregnancy test but, alas, I can’t.

There’s admiration, there’s pity, there’s fear; addressing you is what I imagine meeting David Hasselhoff is like.

For, you see, the people who don’t watch TV will surely tell you right away how they don’t watch TV.

Sure, maybe you waste a little bit of time and gas money if your application ultimately doesn’t pay off, but no one is dying, no one is relapsing back down the heroin rabbit hole, and no one is canceling the second season of House of Cards if you don’t get this job.