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I offered to go back into the ring and pretend to get knocked out, but it was too late, especially since I had already taken my shoes and socks off.
Minute 4: I cut out all fake friends, they’re leeches.
Me, a sweat-stained, yellowing bed pillow. You, a 42-year-old single man that clearly hasn't lived with a woman since moving out of his mom’s place.
You're eleven, and first thing's first: everybody is going to be super impressed that you, an eleven-year-old, are already reading Hemingway.
Conclave: Based on the summary that my childless friend gave while dropping off a tray of lasagna, I found this story unnecessarily hard to follow.
Buckle in for the getaway of your dreams. A luxurious solo spin in your very own 2009 Honda Civic.
No one warned me about grappling hook elbow after the age of 25--now my physical therapist owns a foreclosed volcano lair thanks to it.
They say in life, there are no winners and losers, yet here we are, living proof of how far from the truth that actually is.
After my performance last Saturday, I cannot in good conscience accept this participation ribbon.
The nine-to-five can be a grind, so if I’m not attempting to boost morale by blaring high-pitched ditties at every opportunity, then what use am I?
Our panopticon toilet utilizes ruthless social engineering to give you the most intimate experience with your partner.
I know you're the lone survivor, but that makes it all the more insulting.