I like to refer to what gravity has done to my body as the rise and fall of the Roman Empire.
Some of your tweets really strike a chord with me; I hope off-key and quite flat is what you were aiming for.
You should just be thankful for all the things I don’t say.
Don’t hate me because I have an entire drawer in my fridge dedicated to cheese, hate me because it’s organized according to expiration date.
I accidentally put my yoga pants on backwards this morning; and I’m absolutely horrified to say, they’ve never fit better.
The occasional loneliness I feel being single doesn’t compare to the pure bliss of never having to share my Hershey’s cream pie or bacon.
A penny for your thoughts, a dollar if you keep them to yourself.
I invented a breakfast calzone this morning, hashbrowns as the double crust with an omelette in the middle. So now I have to marry myself.
I’m only going to have two glasses of wine tonight
~ refills 32 oz tumbler
What’s it called when you wake up and have to delete 73% of your tweets from last night. Alcohol, it’s called alcohol.