Don’t Talk to Me Until I’ve Had My Coffee!
Before coffee, I’m, like, a zombie feeding on its own, like… brains or whatever, and struggling to complete straightforward zombie analogies.
Before coffee, I’m, like, a zombie feeding on its own, like… brains or whatever, and struggling to complete straightforward zombie analogies.
I was never properly notified of the existence (and have yet to receive a copy) of the complete list of the committee-approved breakfast foods.
Maybe you’ve returned to your normal life and are back at work, arriving to a ghost town at 10 AM, taking a two-hour lunch, and leaving by 3 PM.
Spending the night with your wife is now HAVING A SLEEPOVER WITH YOUR BESTIE. Dinner dates are now EATING WINGS WHILE YOU GOSSIP ABOUT NON-BESTIES.
Darren McCoy, 28, Class of 2013, Has an 8-Year-Old Batman Spec Script No One Has Read.
This residency is fully funded and exists in an alternate universe where the words fully funded do not mean we give you funds.
I’m just a Pumpkin Spice Latte, standing in front of a customer, asking them to love me for more than 55 days a year...
“I don’t want to come off as needy so I’ve been sitting on this text for precisely 72 hours since our last hang.”
That should say “eight million." I guess you could pay somebody to fix it or—wait, we do that for free, all for the cost of a cup of coffee, don’t we?
God, I adore those deadly Arctic air jet streams like they’re a Jacuzzi jet femme fatale delivering ice to my shivering body. The tingle!
If I see an unattended Mason jar, you’re goddamn right that I’m filling it with marbles, lemon slices, and a few artistically disheveled wheat stems.
Instead of buying a latte, deposit $5,000 in an IRA. Do that every single day and within less than a year you’ll have nearly a million dollars!