You will be my best friend if you buy me either a can of Mountain Dew or a Three Musketeers bar.
I don’t understand people’s obsession with name brands. It’s a dress, for god’s sake; it’s not worth $1,250.
There aren’t enough dog parks in Minneapolis.
Our street needs streetlights. Even one would do.
46-degree days are great. 46-degree days that are preceded and followed by 10-degree days are just giant death traps waiting to either lock you in your just-washed car or kill you with giant invisible sheets of ice.
You cannot call the stretch of Washington Avenue that I take home a street. Call it what it is: a series of potholes spackled together with random chunks of asphalt.
Women are worse drivers than men. That’s right, I said it.
It’s impossible to move 20 lbs. of cat bulk at 4:00 a.m. when you’re sleeping in an S-shape to accommodate them.
Dog burps are always funny. Dog farts, not even remotely.
Whipped butter is not spreadable. At all.
Money does buy happiness. If you doubt it, send me some money and I’ll prove it to you.
If I am betting money on something, impossible situations will occur to make sure I do not win (see also: Steelers interception in the Cardinals’ red zone that miraculously became a Steelers TD as time expired at halftime, thereby robbing me of $10).
I contacted my best friend from high school on Facebook. That was a week ago and I haven’t heard anything. The old me would’ve assumed it was because she HATES me now and would go crazy trying to figure out what I did wrong. The new me figures maybe she doesn’t go on FB that often and even if she is avoiding me, who cares? (The new me is pretty laid back.)
