But after all my sacrifice, my masterpiece sold only sixty-three copies, fifty of which I pawned my furniture to buy.
Little did I know then that I would soon join the ranks of those with no hope of escaping or being opened even in the slightest manner.
I know we’ve only got a few hundred words to work with. Surely, though, it wouldn’t take much to give me a bit more personality.
I didn't think much of it when we got a tip that the script was sitting in the bottom of a wastebasket in a Starbucks bathroom on Milwaukee Ave.
Before you roll your eyes, remember, I am optional. If you want to half-ass this job application, don't say I didn't give you the opportunity.
The grocer is like heaven, everyone exalts it, but no one wants to go there now.
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Class had started, but half the students wouldn’t show up until 13:10.
What if those years embroiled in a sadistic old bat’s cruel ploy to take revenge could be avoided by setting deranged convicts loose in your youth?
You're a master of your craft. No, not the hazy IPA you're drinking, but you're a master of that too.
The document that I sent you by mistake, “Human Meat and the Future of Farming,” may seem like a confession, but I assure you it is not.
Your Date reserves the right to describe your physical shortcomings, erroneous grammar, ill-chosen wardrobe, and sub-par erotic technique in detail.
This simple 7-ingredient recipe will elevate your baking beyond the falsehoods of flavor and morality.