I Think My Pen Pal Might Be My Dog Trying to Get a Bite of a Ham Sandwich
I’m really excited to get to know you better! Where do you live? What are your hobbies? What are you eating right now?
I’m really excited to get to know you better! Where do you live? What are your hobbies? What are you eating right now?
Customer service is, as before, abysmal. It requires at least three begs, a yip, and an emphatic paw stomp to get any attention from the staff.
It is May 10, 2008. I am nine years old. I purchase the book Frindle from Hastings Entertainment Store. My mind grows fat off its teachings.
So now I’m a child, still bouncing on the trampoline—did I mention the forest floor is made of trampoline?—and I’m trying desperately not to cry.
Got a haircut and started showering every day. And I’m pretty sure he got my Michael Scott tattoo removed, but he won’t let me see.
Soon, I’ll have to decide which to marry. For now, we do a lot of courtship. One of them might stare at me, and I stare back.
She rolls into my office like one of those rotating hot dogs at 7-11. You know the ones, plastic-y but intriguing.
I walked on and on, finally reaching the end of the line alongside Route 276 just outside King of Prussia, Pennsylvania.
Rather than responding “sounds chill boyz,” he ignored the message, instead opting for a podcast about the disappearing watermen of the Chesapeake Bay.
"A lesser airport CEO would have focused on vanity projects, like adding more of those carts that escort people faking injuries or improving security, but not Mario."
“One final touch, my dear boy,” his Grandma said, carefully placing an entire stick of butter on top of the dish.
The water is so chalked full of minerals that no matter how hard I try, I cannot get the soap to lather. Just like the shower at home, but shittier.