Any time I see a couple jogging together, I try to figure out which one of them is unhappy about it.
I attempted a smoky eye for a Zoom pitch, but instead it looks like I survived a bar fight so I’m going with that story.
Recipes used to be terse instructions handwritten on an index card. Now you scroll through a Paris engagement story before you get to how to make the goddamn soup.
Trick-or-treating has been canceled, so this Halloween I will be giving out advice.
After 2 weeks of multiple health screens and asking everyone to quarantine, I surprised my closest inner circle with a trip to a private island where we could hunt people for sport.
I don’t like puppies. I like old dogs who put a serious paw on your arm as if to say “The jerk I lived with before this buried a treasure map. I still remember where it is. Get your car keys.”
I don’t understand people with bare desks. My desk looks like a barfight started next door, crashed through my office, and kept on moving.
I’m quiet and hate confrontation with neighbors, so I renamed our wifi “Some Of Us Think Your Rooster Should Be Kept Inside On Weekend Mornings.”
I opened the internet to read today’s news and quickly said “Oh, god, sorry” and closed it like I’d walked in on an unlocked bathroom stall.
“Take me with you,” I whisper, palms pressed to the windowpane, watching the trash truck drive away.