The chocolate syrup furrowed its brows with great determination and hurled itself out of the refrigerator as I reached for the milk. My free hand automatically shot out to protect this nectar of the gods from falling to the floor. "Gandalf! Noooo!" I cradled the bottle in my arm and looked at the familiar Hershey's label with fondness. "Okay, then, little buddy," I said. "Chocolate milk it is."

Somehow, my family came to own a giant chest filled with dress-up clothes. The chest sat in the basement, where my brother and I would play during the summers when it was too hot to go outside. One dress in particular reminded me of the country and the prairie, so I'd often put it on and imagine myself as Laura Ingalls Wilder or someone from that era. Occasionally, I would place a white, silk dress shirt on the punching bag that hung from the basement ceiling, pulling on the sleeves to create a makeshift dance partner.

The chest smelled unlike anything else in the house. It smelled of adventure and mystery and, once in a great while, like Grandma's house.

He loves chess, football, and philosophy. I like Philosophy bath products.

I can't bear the thought of leaving Chicago, but I might accept a fresh start in North Carolina or New Zealand.

Few things are as frivolous and simultaneously heartwarming as a set of cute Post-It notes.

Cold ice cream melted by hot tears. My nights are scripted by LifeTime, and I'm not sure I'm okay with that.