80% of showing up is explaining why you were late.
Accidentally poking someone back on Facebook is like getting an erection when they sit on your lap.
Developing your voice as a writer is difficult, unless you’re okay with adding (You know, like Fran Drescher) to the end of each sentence.
I wish I could do that obnoxious thing all of those idiots at the gym can do with their chest. What’s it called? Love?
I’d wear my heart on my sleeve, but I hate Ed Hardy shirts.
You can always tell I’ve had too much coffee when my heart explodes and I die.
I hate to use the phrase “spiritual journey,” but not as much as “sitting alone in my room because everything in the world scares me.”
It’s a shame I didn’t realize the guy at the Apple Store was a genius until after he hanged himself with iPod headphones.
I’m approximately 68 days, 15 tracks, and 1 high-profile feud away from dropping my mixtape, “The Winter of My Diss Content.”
I can never figure out the right way to bring up the entire universe existing only in my mind to the person sitting next to me in Chipotle.
