3 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
They say the world will probably explode, but our generation wouldn’t be around to see it. They were wrong. Doomsday: Sunday, Jan. 19.
Nothing sounds less appealing to me than spending three hours of my day staring at a bunch of mission-oriented golden retrievers wearing capris and knee-high socks. I will never understand that cliché adrenaline rush from watching 22 guys sprint back and forth across 120 yards of grass while catching, tackling and stiff-arming like it’s life or death.
On Aug. 26, I woke up to a harsh chunk of sunlight slicing through the gap between my blackout curtain panel and the wall. It wasn’t even the tiniest bit cinematic; in no way was I expecting the sudden harmonious sounds of chirping birds and Disney backing tracks to signal the start of my day.