My current number of followers shows just how obscure I am. I'm so "under the radar" that not even hipsters know what to think of it.

If there is one thing I am thankful for, it's that the majority of my extended family hasn't discovered my Twitter account yet.

Ugh, sponges are such retention whores.

So am I the only person who is unsure as to whether or not Montana has people living in it or not?

Call me old fashioned, but women with Jamaican accents make my day.

You haven't truly lived until you scare your cat with a fart.

RT this so that my ego may finally acquire it's ultimate physical manifestation and conquer all life on Earth (excluding those who RTed.)

As much as I love having so few followers, I hope to have at least 100 before the rapture.

Little Sister: "My school is really pushing it with this whole 'reading' thing." #twittergold

If you don't like Talking Heads, I'm going to do something to your naughty bits that ends in -ectomy and/or some other violent suffix.

Black people with blond afros are just too damn cool for themselves. #justsayin

Just came to the realization that tweets are just free-associations with a 140 character crazy cap on them. Freud would be so proud.

Were I to become a musician, I'd want my debut to be an a capella rendition of "Afternoon Delight" consisting entirely of pig squeals.

"Slavery" is such a harsh word. I prefer to call it "frowny face outsourcing."

Cook with bacon grease once and its smell will follow you for a long time, like herpes. Sweet, delicious, pork scented herpes.

Wooo twenty-seven followers! All this attention I'm receiving is getting me all flustered up in here.

I'm still not sure why my mother gets pissy with me every time I call my A.D.D. medication "Ambition Candy".

You guys know that feeling when you hit your elbow on the corner of a wall and your brain immediately switches to "genocide mode?"

I want you all to take a moment out of your day to reflect on the fact that Douglas Adams was way more awesome than any of you will ever be.

Every time someone pronounces the "p" in "pseudo," an English professor receives a lobotomy of the soul.