I have always found white skin rather blank and thin bodies kinda empty from a personal preference. Women’s fashion magazines bored me to tears. That shit is a goal? Why? Nobody could explain to me why.
Us pale scrawnies are actually the smallest percentage on the planet, anyway, and getting smaller and smaller each year as the population blends together, so we’re really just a novelty act on its way out. We should shut the fuck up and embrace the wave, baby.
Thing is, the food industry has shoved hyper-palatable foods at us for so time, we think strawberries are supposed to taste like Jolly Ranchers. We’re full of shit, literally and figuratively.
Best way to use artificial sweeteners is as a temporary gateway drug to step yourself down from being a sugar addict. Don’t think you are one? Take a bite out of a bar of baking cocoa and tell me how much you lurve chocolate.
Trump’s niece, a psychologist, has published a scorching tell-all about the origins of his psychoses and a judge just lifted the family’s attempt to block its release. 75,000 first-run copies have already been sent to bookstores and Amazon is set to pop.
Spoiler alert: Mr. Bone Spurs paid a kid to take his SATs for him!
Looking forward to the impending Tweetnado.
I don’t know what it is this year but I’ve got sixteen fucking bites from my belly down to my ankles. They don’t just itch, they itch with a nuclear intensity that kills souls and I can’t fall asleep at night without ice packs on each of them to dull the desire to tear the flesh from my bones.
Some of them have morphed into red patches of raised pustules weeping fluid that I have to bandage before I leave the house lest onlookers accuse me of leprosy or share their COVID with me via these handy entry points. I’ve bought more athletic tape and sterile gauze this spring than all other springs combined. At one point, the pustules blended with April’s contusion in a dermatological fault line to create an Uber-sore.
This has been going on since May. Every fucking night and day since May. Yes, I wear DEET. Yes, I avoid foliage. Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of spider-of-Satan but I’m at a loss as to how to avoid the little bastards considering I’m a landscape designer.
This is one bite–ONE.
To be clear, the purist carnivore eats meat. That’s it. Just things that poop. Oreos don’t poop.
Omnivores eat, well, everything. Even Oreos, just like vegans. Which clearly indicates psychosis. Just sayin’.
Because I’m definitely a member of the Lay Awake at Night Regretting Every Decision I Ever Made That Didn’t Lead to Perfection Club.
