
Don’t fuck with writers. We’ll describe you.
Don’t fuck with writers. We’ll describe you.
I asked my cat if I’m passive aggressive and she ignored me.
I hope I don’t forget to feed her tonight.
“And to my heirs, I will leave all this….”
*gestures toward 146 half-full nail polishes, all roughly the same color
My cat is smarter than I am but I’m brighter than most plants, so I feel like I’m holding my own.
Halloween: The one day I can flap my arms like a bat and nobody asks any questions.
Someone just told me to dim the lights and called it a beauty tip.
*puts on strapless bra
*takes an extra Prozac
My GPS thinks we should see other drivers.
I await the announcement that Trump’s running mate will be Charlie Sheen.
Examine the shadows around my eyes. They speak of loss, of longing, of doom.
Also, I buy mascara at the dollar store.