I'm 30 and I don't give a rat's booty anymore. I get my sense of humor from my mom. If you don't like it she'll give you a refund.
TMI
I don’t understand why people still think it’s okay in this year 2012, to post about their rashes and various undesirables on Facebook. I’m going to go read my Twitter feed.
Writer (n.)
Someone who spends a lifetime of solitude for the sake of communication.
Jar Jar Binks makes me sad.
Spotify Voyeurism
I would link my Spotify account to my Facebook except for the fear of people seeing my love of “Careless Whisper” remixes.
Callin’ the cops
I was rudely awakened by the neighbors shooting the midnight breeze outside my bedroom window. Normally, it wouldn’t bother me except that it woke me up. After a half hour crept by and the noise of a police scanner was heard, I walked outside and caught one of the neighborhood cops red-handed talking cars with the neighbor guys. The one time I didn’t need a cop and he’s already there.
Neighbors who sell things
It’s not like you can pretend you’re not home when the neighbor who just got a job selling meat from the back of a van or vitamins or magical hair products knocks on the door.
Scientific sciencey things
After much consideration, theorizing and thorough research, I have become quite convinced that my neighbors own one album—that one by Jason Mraz. Honestly, it may be that they only own the “I’m Yours” single, but I am still working that one out.
Facebook Apps
I imagine hell as an eternal onslaught of Facebook apps asking if I want to adopt a cow or unlock the secret answer of whether I am too fat.
My thoughts on underwear
I don’t know who invented ladies’ panties. What I don’t like is I’ve been finding myself wearing the same five comfortable pairs while I have a drawer full of lacy, cheeky, sassy bits. There’s a problem with those pretty underthings.
Who in their right mind designed underwear to have a seam in the damn middle of the crotch? Then the gall to just sew in a flimsy little piece of cotton as if that is going to save you from the inevitable wedgie waiting to invade your personal space. I call it the Vedgie.
Excusez-moi…
I was sitting here, listening to music while writing, somehow creating a strange new character who I want to know more about, when I realized that the lyrics of the music are in French and how awesome that makes me, as a native born American.
Being rather pleased with myself, I kept writing. It didn’t matter at this point that I had no idea what the lady is singing besides a few words here and there. I really wished she was singing about where the nearest train station was or which way to the bathroom.
