It took a while for me to get used to posting pictures of myself, but I quickly learned that people will scroll past blocks of text. I’m a writer. I don’t exist if you don’t read me.
I’m doing a scientific study in my apartment, tracking the lifecycle of a dust bunny, trying to understand how they reproduce so quickly.
I’d like to see a nightly news program performed by the Sesame Street characters. Having plush puppets deliver the news could reduce my anxiety.
I assumed the word cupidity had something to do with Cupid, that plump little angel who pierces our hearts arrows of love. But Cupid has a dark side.
I should have chum controls on my browser with a pop-up box that warns, “Don’t You Have Something Better To Do?”
The things I buy call out to me with the lure of eternal coolness. Then I bring them home and forget about them.
I know I should fear an algorithm that doesn’t know the difference between rugs and shoes, but I’m addicted to eye candy.