I’d be fine with a ghost in the house if every time a message in blood appeared on the wall it was something helpful like YOUR KEYS ARE IN THE FRONT DOOR.
ME: Why can’t I sleep?
CUP OF COFFEE FROM 4 PM: I’ve put together a list of everyone who might be mad at you.
I’ve studied enough modern theater to know that inviting another couple over for dinner never ends well.
I hate cooking, but I am excited to debut my cookbook “Toast On A Paper Towel, 365 Ways.”
I want my house to be tidy enough so that if people stop by unannounced, it doesn’t look like I adopted a bear with a jug stuck on its head.
God returns to his desk with a midnight snack. He squints at a video feed of Earth. The plate of nachos falls to the floor in slow motion.
I was in the grocery store when Vogue came on, and while nobody could keep up with my choreography, security did let me finish the routine.
[gently takes the Spider-Man franchise outside using a cup and piece of paper]
There you go, little buddy. You’re free now.
It’s Sunday morning. My 80-year-old neighbor has hiked and weeded her garden. I spent ten minutes trying to reach the remote with my foot.
I want my house to be tidy enough so that if someone drops by unexpectedly it doesn’t look like we’re six days into battling a poltergeist.
I would be okay with a ghost in the house if every time a bathroom mirror fogged up with steam, it slowly wrote out “DID YOU LOSE WEIGHT?”
My husband walked into the kitchen and asked, “What’s burning?” I told him, “The world. But what you smell is the chicken.”
I seem pretty put together for a grown woman who imagines she’s traveling through a wormhole each time she pulls a turtleneck over her head.
I attempted smoky eye makeup for a holiday party tonight, but instead it looks like I survived a bar fight, so I’m going with that story.
You’re a busy woman. Let the smoke alarm tell you when the chicken’s done.