How long has it been since we have been spiritually nourished by the humanistic Facebook postings of our favorite mild-mannered graphic designer, Buffy Van Huis?
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If by bitch, you mean I'm not stupid enough to put up with your bullshit, then yes, I am.
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I wish my chances of winning the lottery were as good as the chances my foot will find the pile of dog vomit in the dark.
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Sitting next to the dirtiest of hippies on the train has taught me a little something about the smell of damp cardboard and expired bologna.
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Not sure how much street cred you get from using your Crown Royal bag as a purse, but I'm pretty sure it gets you a free trip to AA.
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Ok, he's really cleaning under his toenails with a pen. I mean, just in case the police want to know why I burnt down the train.
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My
husband likes to watch Smoky and the Bandit on a Friday night which is
cute because can use that on his dating profile when he's single.
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If you don't play guess the crazy in the therapist's waiting room, then you aren't doing therapy right.
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When you called me a bitch, I bet you didn't expect to get on the same elevator as me. Or the part where I stand really close and grin.
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My husband found his high school football highlight films. This is my suicide note.