I need some mirrorless in my life.
I’ve been writing this letter for three fucking months. Longer. I don’t even know. This letter is older than I am.
What would you have done with the leftover cats?
I just read this sentence and almost peed my pants laughing: “Hollywood continues to be a deeply conservative place where coming out doesnâ€™t feel like an option.”
I’m not expecting a thank you card, but a simple “hey thanks for that really thoughtful thing you did” in passing is common fucking courtesy.
Why would you ever put a comma there? In what universe does that make sense?
Listen. Just because there’s caramel involved does not mean you are morally obligated to add “sea salt” to it. First of all, salt is salt. Secondly, not everyone is a fan.
Too much goddamn estrogen in this office. Which means there is also too much goddamn perfume in this office. I am probably suffocating right now.
Stop putting an apostrophe in Nachos Deluxe. I beg of you.
Your perfume smells like Lysol. It’s awful.
Well there go my lunch plans. Dammit.
It’s like a script she’s memorized. She just jumps from person to person repeating it.
No one knows that that’s a picture of Murray Rothbard. And it makes me so happy to have hidden it in plain sight.
I probably needed more deodorant this morning.
Even so, I still smell better than your perfume.
I quite often wish I still smoked.
I don’t know. On the one hand you think, “How could you not know your husband was a serial killer?” But on the other hand, most people are purposely obtuse, particularly when they choose to spend their lives with sociopaths.
I’m probably taking it too personally, but when you know something is my job, I find it a teensy bit insulting when people say “are you able to” do something. It’s offensive, really. Obviously I’m bloody well able.
Just don’t come back dead and it’ll be all good.
Well I’d like to visit those places, but my life won’t be ruined if I don’t.
I’m digging this fella quite a bit.
So … you and your perfume are just here all day then are ya?
There are a handful of people to whom I speak very formally in electronic communication.
You know what sucks? Selling your house.
But. I don’t need to buy eggs.
Man my head hurts today.
so. much. dumb.
It’s a lot of shoes.
Everyday is Halloween.
money! gimme some money!
Or I could just buy some skulls.
Ahhhhh. There it is. The My Favorite Murder fandom has begun to feast on the flesh of the podcast hosts. It was only a matter of time, really.
Please. Just don’t be in a foul mood.
Awesome. Because changing our passwords every 6 months wasn’t torture enough. No. Now we have to use two factor authentication for our database login. Fucking yay.
Why would I want the Nancy Grace book? That woman is AWFUL.
I wish I had a chocolate chip scone right now.
Doing anything publicly is inherently dangerous these days. There’s a mob around every corner, just waiting to devour you.
‘There’s a hole in the world. Seems like we ought to have known.’