Ripping out recipe pages from the home living magazines only to never use them and shove them in a drawer instead.

All I want is a cottage in the Scottish Highlands, a raging snowstorm, and Agatha Christie novel, a crackling fire, a kettle on the stove, and a basket of emotional support pastries.

Why does the brain-worm man sound like how I think a mummy with all the brains scooped out would sound? It can’t be coincidence.