In a few naked minutes I learned that self-diagnosis is worth exactly what you pay for it.
Soon a girl’s menstruation party will include gift certificates for Botox along with her first tampons. You’re never too young to fear aging.
Age is climbing up on me like kudzu, and I feel like I need a plan for what to do with it.
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.
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.
How exhilarating it must be to feel the fresh air moving across your skin as you run half-naked without fear of assault or arrest.
If Einstein needed Botox to get a job, the Allies might have lost WW2, My Favorite Martian wouldn’t have been in prime time, and Dick Tracy would have been talking into his necktie instead of his wristwatch.