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Oh, how literary I look! Scribbling furiously in my leather-bound Moleskine notebook with a free hotel pen!
Every time I tried to treat one, it would start freaking out and flapping its wings trying to fly away.
Every year we live in fear of predatory rent hikes by turkey vulture-owned management companies.
I know, it’s fucked up. And I do not envy whoever has to go toe-to-toe with that buffalo of a man.
Actually, I think I’m responding quite normally to the motivational seminar I watch constantly.
All politicians want to have sex with Paul Rudd.
The irony is that your mushroom superfood promises me more energy, which I wish I had now, so I could resist ordering it.
We mourn the loss of Avocado, survived by literally everything else in the kitchen.
The hole for my mouth is pretty much only there for novelty reasons. No matter how hard you push, none of your cups or plates will ever fit.
This is progressing faster than I can manage—remember, I’m a marathon, not a sprint.
1. Every portrait makes me look like a Relief Pitcher for the 1974 Chicago White Sox.
We may be a lab in a haunted castle, but we still have rules.