near his pumpkin plushy. Maybe I fucking vent all my frustrations over our nation’s decent into authoritarianism, which I’ve found useful in lessening the chance that I completely un-fucking-load on some random fucktard in the dairy aisle of The Kroger. Or maybe, like today, on that...

Maybe it’s a note to a friend, giving them the skinny about what’s what in my neck of the woods, or just letting them know that I’m thinking about them. Maybe it’s a poem inspired by the interaction with that Golden Lab I met the day before, the one who was not gonna let anyone get their hands...

myself. No scrolling. No dogs. No texting. No chores. No have-tos, no shoulds, no need-tos. My time, no one else’s. I sip on whatever’s in my cup at the time, nibble on whatever’s on the tray or in the wrapper in front of me, and in between those sips and nibbles… I write.

If that trillion was under the condition that he’d use it to leave the planet FOR GOOD, then I get it.

I’d wager 99% of his “friends” sigh when he approaches them, followed by an underbreathed “This bitch.”

#Trumpathy

Same.

Agreed. Children are monsters.

Some call it that. I don't.

From what I’ve read, the “stink” is quite literal.

How quickly I just shifted to "They deserved it."

She does, but only when she takes matters into her own hands. 😜

Matador. Predator. There's a similar rhythm there, so it's obviously a misheard kinda thing.

So, when THEY make a joke, it's just a joke. But when WE make a joke, it's a declaration of war? 🤨

I know that smell, and it's better than anything you're ever gonna find in a cologne bottle.