I read the title from the cover. ' 'The joy of... crap.' ' I read the rest of the full title of the thick, nondescript volume to myself and felt myself redden. Noah turned over on to his side and said with mock seriousness, 'I have never read 'The Joy Of Crap'. Sounds disgusting.' I blushed deeper. 'I have, however, read 'The Joy Of Sex.' ' He continued, a smile transforming his face. 'Not in a while, but I think it's one of those classics you can come back to again... and again.
When I first met Clint Eastwood, I bobbed him a curtsy. I still cringe about that to this day.
I cringe when I watch myself on camera. I'm not articulate, and I'm dyslexic, but somehow it works.
