According to a recent study I heard somewhere but can’t totally remember where, a whopping 80% of Americans don’t base their political opinions on facts and opt instead to listen to biased talking heads. When I read this from this person I follow on Twitter, I was shocked.
Being the sole beautiful person in a space — as I often am — brings a pressure few could understand.
But there's one very compelling argument that voters have not yet considered: Bernie's name can be rearranged to spell "Nabs Reindeers."
So I’m writing this to ask: before you judge me, before you ridicule me, before you condemn my very existence — you need to hear my story.
I hope customers enjoy tasting a piece of this ass.
I speak for every Penn student when I say that the probability of getting hit by a car while walking across any of these roads is too damn low.
It’s gritty, it’s scary, it’s a health hazard, but you see, that’s the point. It weeds out the weak in the community.
"So what do you study?" "Oh, I'm undecided." Does he just fucking hate me?
Okay, I’ll be honest — I’m an imposter. Despite regularly eating in restauraunts I am incapable of spelling the word ‘restraunt.’ That spelling just now was an honest try, and I must admit it brings me great shame.
While watching Parasite, I couldn’t help but wonder how much better the film could have been if all the actors were white, speaking English, and if it took place in rural Texas.
I will be walking to Center City this weekend, and none of you better try to fucking stop me.
I’ve been in this building since it was a women’s gym. Back then, there was excitement, activity, the smell of young sweat and hope. Now, it’s just stuffy English majors pretending to be interested in Marx or The Faerie Queene. I can’t take it anymore.
Caution, bus is turning. Yes, this bus. Turning now. Right now.
I entered 1920 Commons quite an everyday fellow: okay character, good head of hair, a personality both robust and mellow.
The sensual, voiceless, man-sized penguin can actually teach us a lot about life, love, and most importantly, the bedroom.
The old West and Down felt like a club run by a disorganized frat. The new West and Down feels like a club run by a disorganized branch of Triads.
Got something to say? Oops, couldn’t hear you over the sound of the cogs turning in my brain. And we’re chugging along… one way ticket to Smartsville, baby! Population: moi.
Compromising my integrity just to get a thrill is deadening, and I refuse to partake any longer. I’m saving divorce until marriage. Deal with it.
Feeling tired throughout the day? Hitting that 3 p.m. slump? Feel like there’s no way to regain the vigor of your youth? Well, I’m happy to say that my team and I have found a new life-hack to keep you pumped up and ready to blow at all times.
Maybe it's the Philadelphia talking, but I, for one, say that Gritty should have punched that kid.