Sometimes, when I'm bored, I pick my nose. But I don't eat it. That's just gross.
When I smoke in the rain, I get the hiccups.
The other day, Indira (a lovely woman, who ends all her emails with "have a wonderful day") signed an office-wide email with her job title as "Human Ressources Coordinator". For some reason, I still don't really know why, I thought this misspelling was funny, and somehow ironic. I should instead have taken it as a sign of her humanity, and therefore her suitability for the post.
Boxer is right. I'm a total misanthrope.
Victoria's "Secret" is that her brassieres and panties don't look like that on all women. Or me.
More and more, the things I hate the most about other people are usually the things I dislike about myself. Okay, maybe this isn't some mind-altering revelation to you, but still.
No one in the office knows that I have pierced nipples, including me.
I don't get modern art. Or most poetry. Or Wi-Fi. Or how my car works. I don't get a lot of things, actually.
Son has total power over me, and I don't mind. Does that make me a bad father?
All the thoughts I have, that I thought were original, aren't really. Including this one.
I used to say "This too shall pass", but after a while I stopped saying it.
Molly Haskell said: "For a woman, there's nothing more erotic than being understood." ... I wonder what the hell she was talking about.
The short answer to "What the hell is wrong with me?" is: "I can't afford therapy".
