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.