My mother rejects the Oxford comma.
It always comes back to the personal, doesn't it?
There's something satisfying about defending your life and the lives of your comrades with something you'd find rusting on the floor of your garage.
There is one destination here, and all I can do is try to give them life and comfort as they travel the path.
It's hard to imagine even massive sums of money could produce so many shiny, streamlined skyscrapers in just a few decades. But damn, they're pretty.
We're all important. All of us. Even if we're not princesses at heart.
I desperately want to write but you're going to have to put up with this mélange of nonsense instead.