Jill

As per our conversation, yesterday, 13th February 2011, I am sending this e-mail to provide guidance and clarification, as to the untenable state of our relationship. It was agreed in said conversation, that it was mutually beneficial for both parties; i.e. you (herein referred to as “Jill”) and I (herein referred to as “Jack”), to sever and thereby cease our current relationship, forthwith on the 14th February 2011.

Could God make a rock so heavy He couldn’t lift it?

Does God ever get tired of people wondering whether or not He could make a rock like that? Does God ever say, “Let Me just make this heavy rock and then lift it so people finally shut up about it”?

How quickly could God sell out Madison Square Garden if He agreed to make and lift the rock in front of thousands of fans/gamblers? My friend’s band–they’re called Old Boner–could open for Him.

Dear Foods That I Have Eaten in Cars,

For decades now you’ve been my moveable feast, my chow-down conspirator. You’ve entertained me, sustained me, fulfilled me, and thrilled me in various vehicles across the continent. For your devoted companionship I will forever be grateful. Which is why it pangs me (and I do mean pangs) to announce that, although my feelings for you are as fresh as the day we met, our journey of dietary delights must now come to an end.

Don’t take it personally, Foods That I Have Eaten in Cars. You’re still the sizzling hot sustenance I fell in love with years ago. It’s not you —it’s me.

There are so many reasons to come teach at Dark Canyon Community College.

You want to test yourself under pressure? We got the pressure to test you. We don’t offer tenure to any of our teachers. We call it keeping educators on their toes.

Just by the way the envelope felt in his hand, Lawrence Breton knew what it contained.

“Another rejection letter, of course,” he said, tossing it unopened into the fire. This was not the fireplace with the white brick, the medieval logs, the eloquent wrought-iron grate, and the Kodiak rug: that was the one he thought he’d have by now. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford it, but that he only wanted to buy it with book royalties. Lawrence Breton was arriving at the opinion that all publishers were soulless reptiles whose categorical genocide of science fiction writers was the greatest literary misunderstanding of the century.