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Nothing can crush your soul faster than an eight-hour corporate strategy meeting.
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You don’t own me: I’m not just one of your many toysYou don’t own me: Don’t say I can’t go with other boys And don’t tell me what to doDon’t tell me what to sayAnd please, when I go out with youDon’t put me on display ’cause You don’t own me: Don’t try to change
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Old objects bring me solace—small bits of memories encapsuled by hard exteriors; the hourly chime of the pendulum clock, the aluminum butter dish from my grandparents’ summer house, the ’80s coffee cups from my parents’ wedding gifts, the hundred portraits spread over all home surfaces. I like to be surrounded by it, the nostalgia, the