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I always try to pass stuff off as magic, but it's usually only science.
Every time I come home, I take off my jeans and put on sweats. I am the Mr. Rogers of pants.
My sister, watching my iPhone do it's auto-rotate thing: "How... How does it know?"
Oh, ice cream. So cold, so creamy. So not safe there in the freezer.
Oh mac & cheese, so glowing yelly; you feel so nice, inside my belly.
I'm pretty sure that there's nothing grosser that Subway could have picked to call their $5 footlong than a "Yum Rocket."
I have purchased 6 pounds of cheese in the last two days. I may never poop again.
Oh, sneezing. I thought I told you we should just be friends years ago.
Scene: The flash of lightning; the peal of thunder. The soft *snick* of the clippers as I trim my toenails on my porch.
I think I have tennis elbow. Except I don't play tennis... Maybe just "elbow"? "What's wrong with you?" "I have elbow."
My stomach keeps making noises which sound like I am sending and receiving text messages.
The flies in my house are, I believe, the spawn of a helicopter and a very large horse.
I like my men like my coffee: decaf and I think I'm doing this wrong.
Just talked to someone who made me roll my eyes so hard I think I sprained them.
#youknowurahoeif you look forward to busting up sod. (Way to spell, Twitterverse. Way to spell.)
I can tell it's fall now because I'm in my house and I can't feel my fingers.
Today on the way to church I saw a sign that said "Taco Bell Picnic." No idea what it means, but all I can say is, "I want to go to there."
I don't get counting back change. You could tell me almost anything and I would believe it. "Eight is ten and ten is twenty." Um, okay then.
It is pretty much impossible to feel professional in a meeting when you know you have a box of Swiss Rolls in your purse.
You know. I'd rather smell boy poop than girl poop. Boy poop: just poop. Girl poop: poop + perfume + shame. Makes for an awkward experience.