A Love Letter to My Valentine, Catastrophic Thoughts, On Our First Anniversary
Or how about that day in April when I forget to wash the Cheetos bag? I fell into a fetal position, and I knew you were my soul mate.
Or how about that day in April when I forget to wash the Cheetos bag? I fell into a fetal position, and I knew you were my soul mate.
In light of the truly inseparable nature of relationships during this pandemic, I’m introducing Cupid’s Booster Arrows.
Don't be fooled by the New York City postmark on this letter -- I'm a Wisconsin mink farmer, born and bred.
Now, I’ll admit. I knew the words that I was singing were not in fact “words.” They were more like syllables strung together.
I just sit in the kitchen cupboard waiting until the next time you show up unexpectedly after months of neglect with your puffy eyes and runny nose.
Would you watch a show about a sex columnist in Pocatello? Without me as the backdrop, it’s just white women complaining.
We sympathize that you've lost “thousands of comments I need to get through the daily existential dread,” we have a moral obligation to protect our users.
In Hell, it’s always January, filled with dead Christmas trees and hungover souls bearing an extra fifteen post-holiday pounds.
I had hoped the craze would die out before needing to call an emergency meeting at the alternative milk headquarters, the Portland Trader Joe's.
Do you really need to pull your neck gaiter down at the JetBlue gate and start spelunking your nostrils right then and there?
A gap year will help to make me the man I want to be. Unless you are planning to hire me, in which case: STOP READING. GIVE ME THE JOB.
We know you opened us with the best of intentions but let’s be honest, if you haven’t read us by now you never will.