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They say time heals all wounds, but that’s only for people who aren’t known by a nickname based on their biggest insecurity.
As you run your fingers over my spine, you think: “This is it. This is the year I get my shit together.”
I'll cut to the chase. The tunnel was too long and the light at the end was not bright enough.
Don’t get me wrong—on paper, you had pretty much everything we were looking for. But your experience was not at our company, in this exact position.
You’re here to risk it all on totally digital experiences without a shred of realistic worth, and I’m talking about shrimp.
It’s still early, but if the projections hold—and they should—Jimmy now sits comfortably at seven apples. Not a huge margin, but a significant one.
What’s the point of listening to obscure music if no one knows your doing it?
I’ve seen the moon landing and twerking. It’s too much!
We've also installed security protocols to prevent you from divulging sensitive personal issues at work parties.
Do not, under any circumstances, throw a bowling ball at Mrs. Heathridge.
Do opinion writers share the same responsibility to obey the law as the rest of the world?
How about we all start acting like adults and take this seriously? Does your heart not beat for your nation (green)?