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.
Quarantine sucks in a house that’s haunted because a message suddenly appears in blood saying “YOU USUALLY LEAVE AT 7:45.”
Before you commit to a dog name, go outside at 6:30 AM with no bra on and see how it feels begging that name to poo.
Sorry I followed your minivan for an hour. I got caught up in the movie your kids were watching and wanted to see how it ends.
Any family visit eventually has the Agatha Christie detective moment where someone explains at length whose fault it is everyone has a cold.
I’ll host Thanksgiving if I can wear a bejeweled pantsuit and throw a wine glass at a painting while saying, “Goddammit, Daniel, nobody cares about your novel.”