There weren’t enough hours in the day to process my life story, and it spills over into the dark when my dreams should be power washing my brain.
Yes, Virginia, the world is organized around the male sex drive. Otherwise, why would we have stilettos?
She got married, had kids, kept a nice house, and made sure there was always plenty of lunch meat in the fridge for her husband.
I should have chum controls on my browser with a pop-up box that warns, “Don’t You Have Something Better To Do?”
In the hour between the end of school and the time her parents arrived, we crowded into their kitchen and sucked burned tobacco into our lungs.
It was just one errant grey wire poking through the brown, looking out of place — just one hair. But I was horrified.
Amoebas in sexy grass skirts will soon be doing the hula on TV commercials, calmly wagging their hips to quell our fear of microbes and hypnotize us into buying new and improved products squirming with life.