@trixieboots' (Trixie Longboots) most faved Tweets...
Just ate some ice cream. I realize this is of zero consequence, but that's why it's called "Twitter" and not "Plato's Republic."
I'm having a martini with the dog and cat. I don't count this as drinking alone.
My mom sent me a crystal martini pitcher. My husb is unemployed, we may lose our house, & my mom sent a crystal martini pitcher. I love her.
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Just fell on my ass in the ice. But with defiance and great dignity.
That's the first time giving blood that I've been asked to state my "gender at birth." I guess I really am having a bad hair day.
Wept in class today while reading a passage from Lear. So now students can add "sensitive" next to "terrifying" on their course evaluations.
Every time my brother goes to Berlin to see his German girlfriend, I can't help thinking he's making a Das Booty call.
Dear Student: "AWKWARD" in the margin of your paper doesn't mean we've shared something uncomfortably poignant. It means you can't write.
No honey, that tan doesn't look fake. It looks like 100% genuine Cheetos.
I seem to be on an anti-religious tear. My apologies to the make-believe, omniscient, gray-bearded white dude who likes to rape virgins.
Just served coffee by Too-Much-Eye-Contact Boy. I prefer my latte with a slightly smaller dose of creepy intimacy.
I admire women who continue to wear the fanny pack--in defiance of style, aesthetics, and, let's face it, all that is decent and human.
#youknowyourfat when you don't know the difference between "your" and "you're."

Oh wait, that's not fat. That's stupid.
I'm not procrastinating. I'm arranging my paperclips into a figurative map of ancient Scottish clan organization. HEY, IT NEEDED TO BE DONE.
I hate my family and it's not even the holidays yet.
We're coming to the point where it only seems appropriate to upgrade the status of my shower mildew from "colony" to "civilization."
I don't mean to be all existential crisis & apocalyptic narrative & whatnot, but there's a hole in my ceiling that wasn't there 3 hrs ago.
Midget at Starbucks. I mean, You know, in case you keep track of their whereabouts.
I fancy myself a sort of Dorothy Parker, except without the wit, skill, fame, irony, bitterness, alcoholism, or untimely tragic demise.
Dear job candidate: A 17-pg cover letter and c.v. may very well communicate your vast expertise, but it also says that you're BATSHIT CRAZY.
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