The Minutes of Our Last Meeting – Trump’s Biggly Funeral Plans
Then take my body and put me behind the wheel of a golf cart strapped to a rocket ship and have the Space Force blast me to the stars.
Then take my body and put me behind the wheel of a golf cart strapped to a rocket ship and have the Space Force blast me to the stars.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?