The strangeness of my body type (mostly a mass of tangled, wriggling ferrets and canned corn) is most conducive to sweater weather. Then, my body appears normal, at least when I am artfully arranged on a large leather armchair.
I own 21 dolls, 13 of which are historical, and I have to dress them for their respective time periods unless I want to look like a goddamn fool when I carry them around with me.
Poor baby, you don’t know anything about reality. You probably don’t even have lesions on your genitals. How are you going to work at a big, bad company like Goldman without a disfiguring STI?
Have you ever looked up a book on Franklin only to find that it’s located in Fisher Fine Arts? No? That’s because they have exactly four (4) (fɔr/fɔː) books within their walls.
I now stare at my phone for hours, laughing at videos that are nearly identical.
Sometimes, when the high is 67°, I feel a sense of hope. I get a semi for fall. I might even drink hot tea. But then, the next day it's back to a cesspool of heat and I am left sweating, flaccid, and with no release.
No other CVS compares, and I’ve tried dozens. The CVS near Franklin’s Table is cold and unfeeling; the aisles stretch infinitely backward, the shelves are higher and menacing, the granola bar selection is subpar at best, seriously lacking in mint chip Cliff bars at worst.
I am funny, and if you think otherwise then my sense of humor is probably beyond you.
There is only one date I cling to: the beginning of the next school year, when this meaningless cycle begins all over again, and I order more pens off of Amazon.
I tried to read my email, even BuzzFeed, but found myself lost in a sea of text.
He feels closer to God now that he isn’t railing cocaine off of every flat surface he can find, including his roommate’s ass, which he would often do while his roommate was asleep on the couch.
I knew that without Fling to look forward to and enjoy, my life would be quite meaningless.
Plus, the other day when it went up to 80°, it felt like they were going to melt and run down my leg. This makes me very nervous about my reproductive health.
I want to issue a formal apology to anyone came at the same time as a crescendo of farts escaped my rectum.
I know that she’s probably got an entire family to support, but that family is living in my closet, eating my food, and taking advantage of my heating bill. I’ve been abused enough by this system.
I cancelled my CAPS appointment, I am going to dye my hair pink and give myself bangs tonight, and I’m not worried about my four overdue problem sets.
Men only want one thing, and it’s disgusting. However, I too only want one thing.
Maybe one of them will even take a yoga class while immersing himself in the wonders of Southeast Asia.
If you’ve ever heard an effectively pre-pubescent high school boy stutter through the prologue of The Canterbury Tales that he was forced to memorize by an English teacher somewhere along the line, then you’ll understand why Chaucer makes me wet.
"I politely coughed, to alert the baristas to my impatience, and they didn’t even look up. It pierced me to my core."