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I wake up every morning feeling like P Diddy. Who I assume is always totally exhausted.
On behalf of all call center employees who work Saturdays, I say, "Thank you, Google image search for 'puppies'."
I can feel God in this packed, ear splitting Buffalo Wild Wings tonight. (JK, there is no God.)
I just solved the whole Redskins racism dilemma: keep the name, change the mascot to a potato. Money, please.
I have never been more angry in my entire life.
Looks like I have to give up either television or social media, and it's way easier to pretend that television likes me.
Also: Help, I'm trapped in a football house during the Emmys.
Today is future baby names: Blaedyn Trinity Ginsburg-Friedman.
I really want to name a character Algodon Suave, after this candle.
Trapped in a grown-up urban hipster yard party. Please send help.
Heavily tattooed hipster dad with a four-year-old in a Captain America t-shirt. #cutestthingever
Dear ABC: how dare you use Better Off Ted music to promote your schlocky family sitcoms? How. Dare. You.
The disturbing and bittersweet realization that in this moment, I am probably the happiest that I will ever be.
Theory: Ryan Lochte was engineered in a Subway-sponsored genetics lab to make Michael Phelps seem more likeable by comparison.
I respect free speech. A guy waiting for the public bus called the President a thieving n-word and I didn't punch the mouth off his face.
Free speech just means that sometimes when people talk, I feel less compelled to give them money.
New musical theater concept, copyright me, three minutes ago: "You're A Good Man, Chandler Bing"
Redshirts: a damn good screenplay formatted as an okay book.
I don't know how the most secretly great books end up in the Bargain Priced section of B&N, but I'm not complaining.
For a fat girl, I disappear astonishingly well.
Over-analytical and pretentious unhipster chick. Human sugar glider, notoriously. Hobbies include making jokes on the Internet.