When I go somewhere new and don't know anybody, instead of hanging around awkwardly with my drink and thinking about who I should approach and whether anyone will approach me, I try to find a bookcase; then I can half-browse for books, half-scope out the room without feeling like a spotlight is on me.
When shouting/singing/dancing/whirling people pour into the room and fill it wall-to-wall, I slip outside for a breather.
Why are so many educators humorless? When they make jokes they look pained and nervous, as if they've colored outside the lines and won't get a sticker for their work.
As he lectures us in a nasal voice, admitting no interruptions, he reminds me of a tortoise. A pedantic tortoise in an pea green coat. Thinking about him this way makes him more human to me.
Passive-aggressive silence is more effective, and obnoxious, than an explicit renunciation.
The Prayer for Rain permeates us.
At last the heat is on, and the floor no longer feels like permafrost.