Being a writer is an endless study in human transition and lessons learned or forgotten or misapplied.
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.
You can't possibly fathom the ins and outs of a prepubescent beauty treatment until you've felt the strange but exhilarating tingle of a cottage-cheese-and-Pop-Rocks facial.
Unless you are a professional, you will find the tart to be a high-maintenance, unforgiving whistle-blower of a pastry.
Suburbia is too close to the country to have anything real to do and too close to the city to admit you have nothing real to do.
Like most citizens of popular and international urban centres, I don't take advantage of the cultural opportunities. Perhaps this comes from growing up in suburbia. Home is where you eat, sleep, read, watch television and ignore your parents. It is not where you go to the ballet and then attend a heated panel discussion about it afterwards.
