[falling asleep, my hand dangles over the side of the bed]
[a pale ghostly hand emerges from under the bed, slides its cold dead fingers between mine]
Me, squeezing back: Awww.
“Sir, do you know your blood type?”
“Yeah [coughs & points to wound] red.”
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No I will not change my password.
If someone wants this life, they can have it.
Sometimes sorry seems to be the hardest word, but usually it’s antidisestablishmentarianism.
Them: “I hate to be a…”
Me: “Then don’t.”
*eating before going in Costco*
“Now I won’t overeat samples*
[5 mins later]
*slams cup down*
“Hit me again”
“Sir, that was motor oil”
The store keeps calling me to come back and buy more bedroom furniture, but all I really wanted was one night stand.
Don’t be a doormat, be an electric fence.
I see your choices and raise you one eyebrow.
my friend: so the new person you’re dating is another white guy named matt whose parents pay his rent?
me: yeah, but like, there’s something different about this one.
narrator: there was in fact not anything different about this one.
Me: *frantically starts buttering bread*