I joined a procrastinator support group.
The first meeting was supposed to be last month. We rescheduled it to next month. I am cautiously optimistic.
I typed a thoughtful response to the group chat, then watched six people discuss something else entirely for forty minutes.
After fourteen minutes of parallel parking, I finally got the car into the space.
My brother and I settled the last-cookie dispute fairly: one cuts, the other chooses.
The fancy restaurant served me one scallop on a plate the size of a hubcap, so I felt bad for it and asked for a second to keep it company.
My five-year-old is running for family president. Her platform is dessert first and optional bedtime.
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