Girls don’t want boys they want birds and squirrels and mice to help them get dressed for fancy balls.
Many people are predicting a baby boom nine months from now, but I’m predicting a boom of really shitty screenplays.
I once found a deflated “Get Well Soon” balloon in a graveyard and there’s never been anything more representative of the human condition.
“I detest drama!” I declare with a flourish of my cape, and the back of my hand over my forehead.
Always a bridesmaid never a vengeful ghost in a glowing fog.
I hate it when I’m in a rage and suddenly remember I’m not wealthy so I can’t hurl expensive bone china into the fireplace.
I’ve trapped dozens of birds and woodland creatures in my room but not one has helped me get dressed, and they’re just shitting everywhere.
I just want to be important enough that someone unexpectedly puts a cup of coffee in my hand, which I gratefully accept with only a nod.
“Unhand me you cad!” I shriek, before turning disappointedly to see that I’ve only caught my shirt in the silverware drawer.
“Mommy, why does an old person’s skin look so see-through?”
Aw, honey, it’s just because they are getting ready to be a ghost. Sleep tight.