To the Person Who Gave My Toddler a Noisy Toy for Her Birthday
Thanks to you and the Magical Musical Mat™, every minute of my life is now a beeping, squawking, nonstop honking nightmare.
Thanks to you and the Magical Musical Mat™, every minute of my life is now a beeping, squawking, nonstop honking nightmare.
Some write to live out a fantasy that they were never granted: revenge on Frankie Wick, who pantsed them in Ms. Dakota’s class in the 9th grade.
Dorothy Hamill, for inspiring the bowl cut my mom gave me from ages 6-12.
I give you that quick dopamine rush that makes you feel like your life is actually in your own control.
As you run your fingers over my spine, you think: “This is it. This is the year I get my shit together.”
Am I not a multi-million dollar painting too? I’m tired of listening to tour guides only talk about Starry Night.
The irony is that your mushroom superfood promises me more energy, which I wish I had now, so I could resist ordering it.
When Bob Ross painted you, he always put the trees in front of you. Don't wonder why.
Are you fucking with me? Because if you are, I swear to God that, with ZERO hesitation, I will absolutely let you do that.
Now I’m halfway to the table, and this bowl is burning my fucking hands off.
Why does Pac-Man have to eat us? We’re starting to doubt the “we’re a family” ethos he’s always mentioning while he races after us, lips flapping.
- “Economically anxious” strawberries - The blackberries of our discontent - The raspberries of road rage