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If only I remembered names with even 10% of the fervor and immediacy with which I remember the wifi password a barista tells me.
Hairstyles should get awards for Most Improved. Yeah, this looks like an unremarkable bun but you should see what I was dealing with.
Look, Google, your creepy search memory is cool but maybe I don't WANT to know how many times I've visited the Star Trek:TNG epguides page.
Still refusing to believe August and October can possibly be separated by only a single month.
Any trip to New York is just a challenge to see how many meals I can eat. And by meals I mean cocktails and donuts.
A hectic workweek is like college final exams except yr not allowed to wear pajamas in public or put yr head on the desk regularly to groan.
Monday morning mood: Paul Rudd picking up his cafeteria tray in Wet Hot American Summer.
Working on my dissertation, Do I Want Bangs Again?: The Photobooth Selfie as Historical Record and Analytical Tool.
Playing 'Did I take a photo of this wine bottle b/c I liked the wine or b/c I liked the label font?' Also known as The Douchiest Game Ever.
Proustian flashback: Apparently "5 degrees and slightly hungover" is my quintessential living-in-Boston sense memory. Sounds about right.
Tapas: for when you want to leave hungry, angry AND poor.
Hahahaha you want me to switch with you from an aisle to a middle seat for a 14 hour flight? Hahahahahahaha, good one, lady.
Husband's standard packing list includes food for me in case I get, quote, crangry. I'd be mad if it weren't so sensible.
It's not so much a 'work week' as a cyclical period in which all my clothes migrate from my closet to live in a heap on a chair.
Let's get drunk and watch Star Trek.
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