People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones—I’m speaking specifically about the guy at the end of our street, John, in that huge glass house. I saw him throw a stone off his lawn the other day, and I’m sorry, I know this is sort of sexist and antiquated and everything, but he throws like a girl. Like, I could throw more fluidly with my non-dominant arm. But that’s not really a fair example, because I’m what’s called cross-dominant—it’s not ambidexterity, where you’re equally good at everything with both hands. I do fine-motor skills with my left hand, like writing and brushing my teeth, and play sports with my right. I think I’m supposed to be a natural lefty, but I learned to throw a baseball with a righty’s glove. Anyway, like I was saying, John shouldn’t throw stones, because it’s embarrassing for me to watch a forty-five-year-old man use a motion that an eight-year-old girl might—yes, I know, I shouldn’t use that comparison. His house is gorgeous, though. And he’s the most morally upright guy on the block.
The Believer is coming home
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