Sunday Squibs

 

Our counselor, analyst, priest, will hold our hand and tell us the bogeyman’s dead and the lights are on, but we still have to open our eyes by ourselves. 

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By making too much of a thing, we’re maybe belittling it. 

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The lunatic fringe is spreading like the rips in a fashionista’s jeans. 

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Those who blame God for the bad must blame God as well for the good. 

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Much as I like young people, I feel more comfortable in the homes of the elderly, where there’s always a pair of readers lying around I can borrow in a pinch. 

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The impatient procrastinator can’t wait for his lateness to arrive. 

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Ninety-nine percent of us despise spammers, but the industry dines well on the one percent  who pick up. 

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Spiritual growth is like the cracking of an egg. There’s always an ugly stretch before the soul is cute and fluffy. 

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If I could just be 

On the wall there, 

A fly

Forgetting for now

Where a fly’s interests lie

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When one sense is lost, the other senses sharpen. The aging old timer must do the same. “Honey, will ya bring me my apple desert?”

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