Who Needs Therapy When You Have a Career?
Adjusting the height of my desk chair is my therapy. Nothing says self-care like taking small measures to prevent repetitive strain injury.
Adjusting the height of my desk chair is my therapy. Nothing says self-care like taking small measures to prevent repetitive strain injury.
Many of you hare aware of the plumbing issue recently discovered in the sacristy toilet, a situation Father David referred to as “a test of faith.”
How could I ever dream of being a proponent of it when, in reality, I am a victim, torturously stalked by drama at every turn?!
Imagine: Taco Bell Cantinas, free of the pressure to appeal to a burgeoning youth market, would once more become—simply—Taco Bells.
Many viewers claim that this was an accident, but the truth is that every aspect of this show is meticulously planned including Ed Sheeran’s cameo.
You don't release a fleet of driverless vehicles on a city and not expect someone to try to lasso one and wrestle it to a stop.
“You won’t be needing that anymore,” you told me “from now on, you’re known as ‘sad male employee burns mouth on coffee too hot office man.'”
Falling: Your subconscious is saying that you need to go back to school or enlist. You’re falling away from your stupid wakeboarding career.
I am the only one in my sphere of influence who has a truck that hauls ass. As such, my friends frequently call me to haul some ass for them.
"A Room of One’s Own" by Stieg Larsson: But, you may say, we asked you to speak about women who don’t take any shit and the stories they tell
I know this is sugarcoated for the sake of elementary school curriculums but caterpillars do not transform into butterflies. They die in there.
You never know what a peasant is going to do with that signet ring you slipped from the archbishop's finger while pretending to kiss his hand.