Showing results for 2014
Roxana and Robert are in therapy because they argue: about the baby, about the laundry, about therapy, and about therapy, too.
One morning I wake up and there are over thirty new texts on my phone, all from him. While I was sleeping, we got into an argument, made up, and then started fighting again, all without my knowledge or participation. Right now he is breaking up with me.
Simon Pegg would kill for a beer. Will. Has. Is. Over and over again. An hour into The World's End, halfway through a pub crawl he's been waiting twenty years to finish, he engages in a beautifully
“My son was murdered last year. His bride murdered him.”
How they say something doesn’t wink at an audience, this caws its eyelids off. What we got? Mad Men? True Detective? Those shows are about acting. (Sometimes about writing in service of plot. Oh, True Detective, almost, so close until the final explanation cribs us all.)
Where the fuck are the collected plays of Ron Allen? The police have won, that’s where.
I had my bags packed and was getting ready to leave with two insane-seeming girls who offered me sex in exchange for a ride to Cleveland when a few patients stopped me and essentially pushed me into the lecture hall. I don't know why I didn't put up more of a fight -
I googled “Karl Ove Knausgaard AND Nicholson Baker” and didn’t find much. A review of My Struggle from The Monthly, an Australian magazine, compared some of Knaugaard’s reflections to “Seinfeld’s