I will write you letters which I will never send , I will write you poems which you will never read, I will tell stories about you which you will never know , I will miss you and break a little and you will have no idea , it’s funny how sometimes we can love and die over someone so silently.
—  Kriti.G
He writes the worst English I have ever encountered. It reminds me of a string of wet sponges; it reminds me of tattered washing on the line; it reminds me of stale bean soup, of college yells, of dogs barking idiotically through endless nights. It is so bad that a sort of grandeur creeps into it. It drags itself out of a dark abysm…of pish, and crawls insanely up the topmost pinnacle of posh. It is rumble and bumble. It is flap and doodle. It is balder and dash.

H.L. Mencken, on President Warren G. Harding, Baltimore Evening Sun, March 7, 1921.

I wish H.L. Mencken was here to analyze Donald Trump. I’m certain he would find no grandeur in him.

Imagine Sam and Dean looking after your daughter so you could have a spa weekend

“But where’s Mommy?” Katie asked for what must’ve been the tenth time since they sat down breakfast.

“She’s out with Auntie Ellen and Jo,” Sam reminded her, “So it’s just me, you, and Uncle Dean until Sunday night.”

She nodded, frowning slightly, “And what day is today?”

“Saturday, kiddo,” Dean told her, ruffling her hair and making her giggle.

“’M not a kiddo,” she protested, still giggling slightly, “Daddy, tell ‘im.”

Sam nodded solemly, a small smirk on his lips that his brother noticed but his daughter was totally oblivious to.

“Yeah, Uncle Dean,” he agreed, “Kate’s four now.”

“Yeah, four,” Katie nodded, and Dean laughed, dropping his head, his niece never ceasing to humour him.

Katie smiled, reaching her hands up for Sam to lift her out of her seat.

He got up, picking her up and resting her on his hip.

“Whattaya want to do today?” he asked her, kissing her cheek.

“Wanna watch ‘punzel,” she told him, and he laughed softly.

“Of course,” he agreed, walking her through to your room, where Tangled was already set up in the DVD player.

“I miss Mommy,” Katie murmured as Mother Gothel started singing ‘Mother Knows Best’, obviously remembering how you always sang along, dancing her around the room.

“Yeah,” Sam sighed, kissing the top of her head, “Me too.”