A Plea for a Second Chance from Your Ex, Instant Pot
The first time you touched me, it was like you read the instruction manual on how to make my water boil.
The first time you touched me, it was like you read the instruction manual on how to make my water boil.
Some of you seem to be using this platform for what my psychologist, Dr. Winter, has identified as attention-seeking behavior.
Let me guess, you didn’t want to carry it around with you for the rest of your walk and you planned on picking it up on your way home?
My purple pom-pom has been on the handle and ready to go since March. The places you take me, I would never ever go alone.
Or how about that day in April when I forget to wash the Cheetos bag? I fell into a fetal position, and I knew you were my soul mate.
In light of the truly inseparable nature of relationships during this pandemic, I’m introducing Cupid’s Booster Arrows.
Don't be fooled by the New York City postmark on this letter -- I'm a Wisconsin mink farmer, born and bred.
Now, I’ll admit. I knew the words that I was singing were not in fact “words.” They were more like syllables strung together.
I just sit in the kitchen cupboard waiting until the next time you show up unexpectedly after months of neglect with your puffy eyes and runny nose.
Would you watch a show about a sex columnist in Pocatello? Without me as the backdrop, it’s just white women complaining.
We sympathize that you've lost “thousands of comments I need to get through the daily existential dread,” we have a moral obligation to protect our users.
In Hell, it’s always January, filled with dead Christmas trees and hungover souls bearing an extra fifteen post-holiday pounds.