If you take a stroll into downtown Colorado Springs, you might see a storefront adorned with kooky letters. These letters read “Rasta Pasta.” Yes. A mountain town restaurant has combined the idea of Rastafarianism with the idea of Pasta.
In a Wilderness First Responder course, a handful of topics are introduced with: “Hopefully you’ll never have to do this, but in a worst case scenario…” What Sumner and I did next was one of those cases. Paul had a possible spinal injury, which meant that he needed to remain immobile. If we moved him, we could damage his spinal cord, potentially paralyzing him for the rest of his life. But if he stayed in the creek any longer, he could die of hypothermia.
Paris, New Orleans, New York City, Vienna, Prague, London—they’ve all got this je ne sais quoi to them. Even cities like Denver or Boulder (two of Colorado’s three largest metropolitan areas) have a tangible spirit to them. Denver, the business and industry hub of Colorado, has stuck to its origins as a nexus of trading and an entry point into the Rocky Mountain West. Meanwhile, Boulder is known as the liberal outpost of the Front Range—a Colorado Brooklyn complete with the requisite foodie scene, university, burgeoning start-up hub and even a renowned farmers market. Yet, Colorado Springs, the second-largest city in Colorado, is definitively anemic when it comes to a strong sense of identity, culture or spirit.
I was sitting with my dad, struggling with middle school math homework, when a wave crashed over me. I had an epiphany. I felt the world blossom within me as I learned something new. The revelation provoked me and gave me a taste of things to come. Years later, I can’t remember exactly what the hell I got so excited about, but the feeling stuck with me. I felt myself become a different person. I became self-assured in my way of seeing the world.
I work in a library because it didn’t pan out with my startup sticker business. I used to make bumper stickers about atheism: evolving homo sapiens in tie-dye colors and stuff like that. It didn’t work out, so I went back to school for library science. Everyone else in my graduating year made a long distance book club and I wasn’t invited to be in it. I don’t mean to sound dramatic or self-pitying or anything like that. But I do want to clarify that literally every single other person in my library science graduating class (seventeen people) is in this long distance book club and I was not invited to be in it.
I received four emails from the Clinton Campaign Wednesday, and that’s not unusual. It’s irritating. The whole four email a day thing, still an excruciating seven months away from the general election. Almost all emails ask for me to “chip in just $1” and the area goal for today will be met—the Clinton campaign safe for another day. In the day to day flood of emails, it’s easy to forget that there are uncontested elections these days. Elections where there is only one candidate.
You’re probably familiar with “Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail” by Cheryl Strayed or Elizabeth Gilbert’s “Eat, Pray, Love”? They are two memoirs about two blonde-haired, blue-eyed women off to forget their troubled marriages and personal woes by trekking alone. On a structural level the resemblance is uncanny.
So, you’ve invited your significant other/love interest/cute classmate over for some Netflix and chill. It’s just the two of you, a twin bed and a laptop. You want to set the mood for potential physical intimacy early on. It’s time to break out a classic in cuddling: the Amputation.
She looks average enough wearing a polka-dotted button down, a green camisole and jeans. Her hair is dark brown, deeper than chestnut but not black. The standout feature on her petite face is her almost opaque hazel eyes; they’re larger than the rest of her facial features, but in a way that’s striking. She looks demure, even shy, amidst the dinnertime rush. At first glance, it’s hard to imagine this girl has a sugar daddy.