Musings on a Monday afternoon

When I cry. When I sob, I sound just like my mother. I look in the mirror and the tears have magnified my eyes, making them less squinty than normal, less Telles-like, and that face in the mirror is a mirror of my mom's. It's moments like these, when I see myself and hear myself gushing pain and heartache, that I feel most like her daughter.
There are few foods as comforting as spaghetti with red sauce, or as filling. Spaghetti fills everything.
I finished the second draft of my screenplay, but now I need to hand it over to an “outside party” for an unbiased opinion before I start the third draft. This terrifies me more than the near collisions that occur as I flit in and out of frenetic traffic on my commute to work.
I don't know what I love more, romantic comedies with a group of fun and witty girlfriends, or buddy films with a bunch of quirky middle school boys.
I have never lived in a town where people recognize the sheriff right away and call him or her by their first name.
To the neighbors that live below my apartment, sorry about my crazy dogs. They like to play, ok?
To the 92 year old author of the book I just read . . .your novel kind of sucked, but I am blown away that you are nearing 100, and are still writing books. You are my hero.
To my friends in San Francisco, I miss you.
To the girl who plotted and created in a fit of passion and romance and left her mark of poetic love on the Williamsburg Bridge . . .the joke's on you as you now have to bike past the graffiti every day.