A Caveman Worries About Too Much Flame Time
Me say in day, “Only small fire this night. No add ‘one more wood.’” But me keep stare and stare and no sleep.
Me say in day, “Only small fire this night. No add ‘one more wood.’” But me keep stare and stare and no sleep.
Instead of scrutinizing the position of my butt, I would suggest admiring the lack of buttress in the position of my savings account.
Oh lord, here comes my nemesis: the dessert menu! If I get a slice of the tres leches cake, you’ll all have a bite, right?
What, you think a masterwork like "Swamp at Dawn" just happens? You think I just leave my voice notes running in a swamp at dawn? You fool.
Sure, you could drive to pick up some $20 mix of ingredients haphazardly thrown into a flimsy bowl by a hungover college sophomore.
We cigarettes just taste better abroad. The exact science is unclear, but it’s probably because we’re free of toxic ingredients like judgmental looks from your friends.
But first I would like to know, oh rugged manchild, how sharing my arch on your “internet” sakes the human purpose.
Your Majesty, what I’m saying is that I am a worrier---all I do all day long is worry about every little thing that could possibly go wrong.
It’s O.K, everybody has a different definition of success! Yours just seems remarkably close to failure.
As we prepare to celebrate our great nation’s Sestercentennial, it behooves me to make it known that I am not merely a Raymour or Flanigan.
I don’t let my face betray what I’m beholding because I’m a pro, and I like to maintain an air of mystery, but sometimes it’s just like, yeesh.