You’ll be able to cross “See the Mona Lisa” off your list of things to do before you die, but that’s about it.
You’ll slip a notch in the estimation of your peers when they find out that the Statue of Liberty was a gift from the French, not from you.
Your eyes will soon meet the tender gaze of a handsome stranger, thanks to your decision to check the “organ donor” box on your driver’s license.
There is a time and place for everything, except for your loud and incompetent scat singing.
Whether or not the pig learns to sing, you should keep trying to teach it. You have ample time, and no one cares about the pig’s annoyance.
You’re never fully dressed without a smile, but in this era of office casual, a nice pocket square will do.
Some will say you’re incapable of loving anything in this world, but they’ve forgotten about the little baby ducks.
You knew that girl on the billboard wasn’t real, but you still hoped it was at least a picture of an actual 40-foot-tall woman.
Being able to understand the language of the birds and the beasts sounded great, before you knew what self-centered little shits they all are.
You’re finding it harder and harder to sleep at night, knowing that Wilford Brimley and his horse are still out there somewhere.
No one at the public library will be able to answer your question about whether anyone in America has normal old sex anymore.
It turns out that Andy Warhol overestimated the duration of your fame by about 14 and a half minutes.
