Get suitable gift ideas for any run-of-the-mill person, and tips for reusing leftovers from Sarah Reelwomin (NOT a raccoon).
Take a breath and listen to the brag of the dust mites—I am, I am, I am. But you want them to be not.
Glen Lentil's bold summer pasta recipe, Scott Scranton's safest buy/sell stock picks, and blowout deals at Morty's Asbestos Emporium.
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The journey begins in 465 of the First Age, before the birth of Tuor, son of Huor, with three methods, given to the lords of the brush.
Attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom in the sink basin.
Not only is the third-person thing annoying, but it ends up sounding like a command. Simon says raise your hand if you want to slap me for that.
Every blade of grass has a statue inside it, a David or a Pieta or even a Bacchus, and it is the task of the mower to discover it.
I could easily forgive the pride of a gas or electric griller, if it had not mortified mine own.
Pull taut to create a vibrato of codependence, but not so taut that you further dislodge that which has already been established in the corners.
Consider humming a lullaby as you rock yourself, as your grandmother used to do before her untimely passing. Bah humbug on mortality, I say.
Simon says whatever you do, DO NOT utter a cough, anything that resembles a sneeze, or begin sweating while standing in your boarding group queue.