“It’s to the point where I thought that I was writing a tweet but actually I was composing a new message on Gmail.”
That was both an accident and a reflex. You do not follow my Twitter but your Pikachu Google+ photo is in my inbox for professional reasons.
“There are a lot of bad things that can happen to you if you don’t sleep for a few days but at least none of them is Freddy Kreuger.”
That is bad grammar. Correct it with your teeth.
“CONGRATULATIONS EVERYTHING IS OKAY FOREVER”
That one is a shot in the dark, isn’t it? Self-effacing is your favorite hyphenation.
“I’m not sure exactly how long it is until I have to be in class but this day-old pancake is terrible”
Come make fresh ones with me and sleep through your 8 a.m. class. The snow is up to our throats but that’s even better — a reason to nap during the day. Nap on my sheets. Dig holes in the paper with your toes.
“Sorry for being terse.”
But if you come, bring me some skim milk. We need one and one-quarter cups. We can take hours to figure out what that is in metric units. I will stare at your forehead while you try to do math. I will stick my fingers to it like linoleum toes.
“Show a neglected friend you still love them by texting them insane ideas for tattoos every hour on the hour between 11 p.m. and dawn.”
Know that I love people.
Not loving people is for sociopaths.
Being a sociopath is for meteorologists.
We are not meteorologists. We only pretend to know which way the wind blows.
I will put a finger in the air and then you can lick it. Like a stamp. This is pure business. I am pure business when it comes to you and to weather patterns.
We are in a polar vortex and the only way out is three blocks down and one door up.
Example: “Power hour the witching hour” on knee-back.
Example: A tube of lipstick (but only if I ever write an essay about the politics of lipstick) near my armpit.
Example: “Rhymes with brick wall” on my elbow.
I will write jokes on my body and you can laugh until they fall off.
Ha ha ha ha
the joke is on you because that is never, Peter Pan
Is this a sext?
“Someone cover over and eat the strawberries in my fridge before they mold. This is not a sext.”
This is me saying “this is not a sext.” Compared to you, I am three-thousand times the virgin, baby boy.
Baby boy, compared to you I am a doll house that is a grown woman’s art project and no child’s toy.
Baby boy, please don’t think I rhymed “boy” and “toy” on purpose.
“My self-inflicted 48 hours of solitary have made me really good at entertaining myself in my mind.”
I once watched you fall asleep while whispering “fuck you” over and over and forgive me, I thought you were serious.
“My smoke detector literally always thinks I am committing a fire but really I am just committing grilled cheese or too long of a shower or chain smoking.”
It is actually a particle detector and I am spraying Christmas perfume into its lungs. Come rescue me from Victoria’s Secret and I will pink polka dot your spine.
“Facebook, turns out, believes that I am interested primarily in two things:
1) proactively designing my own engagement ring
2) eating a lot of Sara Lee products at a reduced price”
I think you watch 30 Rock. Liz Lemon is a babe.
“I think you need a nap, Satan.”
I probably saw that on Tumblr but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.
“Let’s be real. As opposed to what? Let’s not be robocops. Let’s never be robocops.”
Let’s be real, I don’t love you like Romy loves Michelle.
Let’s be real, I only love you like Michelle loves muted metallic lipsticks. But god, that is enough for right now.
God, that might be enough for fucking ever. Do you know how great lipstick is?
Let’s be real, I would probably sing a Paramore song to you like a white girl.
Let’s be real, I am a white girl.
Let’s be real, I would sing a Paramore song to you like a white girl who had not yet developed a hatred for being a white girl
I would sing “I SHOULD BE OVER ALL THE BUTTERFLIES” like I didn’t hate myself for sharing your skin color, you hegemonic piece of shit.
Let’s be real, I don’t think you’re a piece of shit I just hate your hats and all of your friends.
Let’s be real, I looked up your high school band and I think I could love you better if you still wore a cardigan unironically.
Let’s be real, I don’t love you, I just like saying your name.
Call me “Kiddo,” so I can pretend you mean Beatrix
Call me “cunt,” so I can pretend you mean Beatrix
Call me “b,” so I can pretend you mean Beatrix.
Call me by name, so I can pretend you mean “once your mother was infatuated with something Irish and I am something Irish and I am infatuated with you — it is because of your sweater and your lipstick which is something with either the word ‘rose’ in the title because of your middle name or something with the word ‘plum’ in the title because of a Mary-Kate and Ashley movie”
Call me for fuck’s sake.
Some things about oxford commas, I can’t remember.