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Not "thinning out." Not "George Costanza-ing." Nope. You're going full-on, sunscreen on your scalp, brain-practically-exposed BALD.
Even if the world was ending, I’d be pococurante, like I was in the third round of the Dayton County Regional Bee when my word was "pococurante."
What’s your motive for second-guessing me every second of every day? Every week, we go through the same rigamarole.
Children: No! Ok, I do have one ward. Just the one! She's not my actual child, it’s just… It's complicated.
Who is the real monster here? The tentacled creature lurking in the vapor outside… or were you all the real monster this whole time?
Some people might ask, how long after modernism is it? A few hours? A few days?
Now now, no need to be polite or offer to kiss my golden socks at all. I don’t like sycophants.
The bandmates of both Cuccaro and Smith shall have their longstanding permission to “crash on the couch” revoked no later than the day of divorce.
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte – "Reader, I married him. It appears Hinge was the dating app intended to be destroyed."
Take a few breaths, now a few more breaths. Are you really wheezing already? That was only the second trip to the U-Haul.
With the last dregs of humanity, I became one of the lucky few to be invited into a reinforced bunker (along with my pal Mike, who is not as grateful).
Let’s see. What else can we dredge up from the darkest recesses of your mind to totally fuck up your night?