You can either be part of the problem or part of the solution, but in the end, being part of the problem is much more fun.
Later, you’ll realize that there was no need to rearrange the opossum to make it look like an accident.
The chaos of Fashion Week is over, but one truth has surfaced: Both you and Betsy Johnson should be forced into exile.
You will cry because you have no shoes, despite being told some sappy “footless man” story that doesn’t make your shoeless condition any more acceptable.
You have grown fat on the blood of the innocent, which, as it turns out, is the main ingredient in that white cream inside Twinkies.
Please stop using the “check please!” hand gesture to get the attention of the waitstaff, you insufferable prick.
Your life’s longtime correspondence to country-music lyrics will become terrifying when you hear Red Sovine’s “Phantom 309.”
Your belief that the earth is carried on the back of a giant turtle will seem silly, until you receive panicked, late-night phone calls from NASA herpetologists.
The worst of it all seems to be behind you, especially if you were serious about that whole “death would be a mercy at this point” thing.
Stretching before exercise does not require a medieval rack and the services of two shirtless, hooded men, but that couldn’t hurt.
Self-employment has a lot of advantages, but one thing that hasn’t changed is your fierce desire to shoot your fucking boss.
You’re not the kind of man who can limit himself to just one woman bringing him pancakes.
