Read a poem. Write a poem. Make the mistake of starting something new.
Maybe it was about the friends we made along the way.
Although this event of biblical importance happened over two months ago now, its impact on human life will forever and always be marked as a measurement of excellence and achievement.
The 75-year-old professor emeritus was repeatedly asked what classes she was taking next semester, mistaken for an undergrad.
I may not know who JP Morgan is but trust me, my size 2 waist is the real investment.
Usually, you’d say “Sorry, I don’t have any cash on me.” Can’t pull that shit now!
The oppressed majority.
Don’t mince words, butcher them.
I mean...what a fucking creep, right?
This inquiry, pitched to the Penn Carey Law Global Institute for Human Rights, required an elite force of thinkers to tackle the case.
You are so bored and I know how much you hate that.
Scaaaarsdale. Scarsdalé. Dalé! Like Pitbull! Wow. That’s worldly.
Now, if I die in combat – as I drive my digital billboard truck – there is no way that anyone at Penn or Liz Magill (we’re both Type O) will receive my bleeding heart, my “BRN” eyes, or my fat ass.
Like did she get in or not?
Sniffle, sniffle, little bitch.
We’ve all been there. It’s 10:07 — the height of your mad dash to your 10:15 class — and everyone, and I mean everyone seems to be out on Locust. You see your professor, friends, enemies, and wait — is that the one girl your great aunt told you to keep an eye out for?
When I next put on some groovy flared jeans, I will shake ass. I will party party party till my panties fall down.
What if we were so far removed from it all that the lie became the truth?
Cold lecture hall, be gone. Git!