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The beep as a noun will beep as a verb, breaking the silence after a set of tic-tocs understood and lamented as the negation of time, for the stranger could not gather from the paltry set of letters the right thing to say.

I just don’t understand you at all. I remember you being on the cover of Vogue once and even the interviewer was like, “Yeah. Your career’s been kind of a joke. What’s up with that?” And you were like, “IDK. I’m just a homebody, you know?”

Posted yesterday, it’s already at over 500k views; highlights include “Could you turn it up a bit?,” “Um, could you turn it down a bit?,” and “Listen, listen, listen, listen, LISTEN.” We think it’s super funny and are totally looking forward to more of these episodes.

Don’t take for granted your freedom. The freedom to create, the freedom of thought, the freedom to imagine because these are the freedoms no one can take away. Be thankful for the people who protect the freedoms that can be retracted, the ones we take advantage of most, the ones that didn’t exist 20, 50, 100 years ago.

Here’s the scene. We meet in a bar. I’m wearing a steel-blue necktie over a black dress shirt. You’re super hot and wearing a red dress. You make eyes at me while I drink a Coke and chat with my friends. I accidentally catch your gaze and offer a weak smile. As I leave with my buddies, one of them remarks: “That chick in the red dress was totally into you.” I smile and play it off, even though I think he was right.

And that’s the thing that I have now grown to resent about my friends and acquaintances who’ve never had to work these jobs, they are almost without fail the people who have no qualms about being absolute toads towards the people serving them.

Before we delve into your options, I feel like I should at least mention that you could always, you know, just say no to your friend who wants money. Just tell them you have barely any money yourself. Who cares if it’s true or not? It’s too awkward to challenge and the borrower will just let it go.

For a long time now, we’ve been told, and increasingly so, that we have to choose between a morning or a night. Well I’d like to suggest there is no such thing as a morning or a night. There’s only morning all day long. The morning is when we look to the future, when anything seems possible — like morning, even throughout the night.

My old apartment had a terrace. It overlooked a parking lot and the backs of too-tall buildings: the perfect view of a nondescript urban landscape. The thing about the terrace is that when you stepped foot onto it, you could be anywhere. The other thing about the terrace is that when you stepped foot onto it, you could be anywhere.

I got wolf-whistled at the other day. Catcalled at? Wolf-whistled at? I had to call my friends to ask for the correct terminology. No one could give me an answer. Anyway, two girls were driving past me in a car, and one of them let out a long, low, sharp whistle, like Audrey Hepburn hailing a cab in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. …Wheet-whooot!

Look at him slowing down, taking a breather. Don’t want to wear out too soon. I like it. I love it. Is he nursing his right knee? Is this going to be a problem for this man who must rely on the physicality of existence to get by? Ha, ha. No, it will not. Look at that playful smirk stretching across his moist lips, teased by the salty droppings from his brow.

Stop feeling sad for no reason. Stop placing all of your happiness into whether or not your crush will text you back. Stop feeling a vague sense of melancholy, something that you aren’t able to pinpoint but you know it’s there.

There are bridges I have burned out of necessity. Yours was simply abandoned, left untended for years until weeds grew through it and the railing fell apart and it became something you might take a black-and-white picture of, but you could never cross again.

When surfing networks — whether it be on college intranet, FTP servers, or KaZaa — there is a curiosity to browse the collection of another, if only to discover things of similar interest. These, however, are curated results. It is rare to comb the lumped, electro-dossiers of the not-so-distant-past.

I understand why someone would lie about cheating. I understand why someone would lie about doing drugs. That makes sense to me. There’s something substantial to cover up. But there seems to be no valid reason to lie about something like the price of a coffee drink other than to do it for the sake of lying, which is terrifying.

I’d also appreciate it if you brought me someone who will have regular sex with me throughout the holidays and into the New Year! It’s getting colder out, the nights are longer, and while fuzzy slippers and a warm blanket are comforting, it’s not as comforting as a naked body huddled up next to you, post-coital.

Here’s a circa 1987 fashion show brought to you buy JC Penny and Dancin’ On Air, a program that ran from the early to late 80s, in which its ‘characters’ rode some extreme denim waves on a regular basis, among other adorable 80s things.

Re-reading A Moveable Feast, which inspired Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris (and controversy when the “restored edition” was published last year), we encounter the young Hemingway before he morphed into the mythical Papa. And what a queer character he is, fraught with sexual anxieties and unsettled in his masculinity—an accidental theorist, whether he knows it or not.

Where you met and where you went on your first date, and how excited you were in the hours before your first date, and how nervous you were during your first date, and how badly you wanted a second date, even before the first date ended.

I was excited until I got in the truck and sat down next to a man I didn’t know. He was in my uncle’s truck, in my uncle’s clothes, spoke like him, held the steering wheel like him, even had the same lumps in his arm. But he had shaved, and without his mustache he wasn’t him. I wasn’t comfortable around him until it grew back.

Feel like you’re being tested to see if you can take care of yourself the same way your mom and dad do. Rise to the challenge! When a friend asks you to meet up for a drink, simply hold up your Theraflu, Emergen-C and multivitamins with a defeated expression. “I would but I have all these vitamins…”

The book is basically unreadable as, it turns out, I was not an undiscovered literary prodigy, but it’s interesting to note what I thought made a good story at the time: fighting, lasers, monsters, horrifying deaths, etc.

Despite soberly describing himself as “a chill dude,” the drinker becomes visibly and easily agitated at this point — and wants everyone to know it. If you’re within twenty feet of the “danger zone,” consider yourself collateral damage.

So I hate coffee. It makes me feel nauseous and need to poop and my breath stinks and sometimes I start twitching. New York City runs on uppers though so I needed to just bite the bullet and start my day with a cup of crack like everyone else.

I don’t particularly love her music but she does make me nostalgic for a time when I did love the idea of what I thought her music and image embodied, namely the Oh-So-Special but Slightly Damaged yet Still Precious, Heteronormative, Middle-to-Upper Class, Teenage Girls that so often occupied my thoughts. It’s not hard to imagine why I connected with it.

“Best of” Lists are to December what mosquitoes are to August, but unlike the panic-inducing insect, no one wants to get rid of the “Best of.” Instead, they feed them, passing them around to their friends, acting aghast when the most fringe author/ artist/ television show has been left out, but smiling in smug recognition at any item that matches up to a notch on their own belt.

It wasn’t long, though, before I noticed two pairs of eyes staring at me over the back of a computer monitor. It was a boy and a girl. When I looked up, they looked down and one of them whispered, “Busted!” Over the weeks that followed, they returned several times.

I beam when a freshly engaged friend flashes her shiny new ring, a promise of forever from her real-life Romeo. When you really think about it, a proposal is pretty much the greatest compliment we chicks can receive. The man you are seeing not only enjoys your company, takes you on dates, and holds your hand in public, (that’s all I’m askin’ for right now, boys) but he wants to partner up with you as long as you both shall live. That’s pretty fantastic.

There’s so much pressure to pick sides, to let people know where you stand. Yankees or Red Sox? Team Edward or Team Jakob? Republican or Democrat? Sometimes it’s hard to choose. Here’s a quick test to help you decide that age-old problem: Are you or are you not Bruce Springsteen?

When I broke up with my boyfriend in high school, I was totally stunned. The first two days I tried my hardest to cry just so I could feel something, and I remember vividly this one time of sitting in a cab listening to “These Days” by Nico on my iPod and straining myself to get some tears.

So often, that admittedly awesome sound bite overshadows Hot Sundae: prolific girl group responsible for paving the way for acts like SWV, All Saints, and the Spice Girls. I went through a three-year Pointer Sisters phase after that episode, THAT’S HOW EXCITED I WAS.

We don’t all use words like “ain’t,” “ya’ll,” “folks,” and “shucks.” We don’t all use double negatives like, “haven’t got no food.” Even my grandmother, who grew up in Arkansas (which, upon discovery, people often say, “Oh, I’m so sorry,”) doesn’t use “ain’t” because, as she would say, “I was raised better than that.”

I get it that your job sucks sometimes but put things in perspective. There are so many qualified people out there who would kill to have your job or any job period. Complain about this stuff only to your co-workers and extend some courtesy to your unemployed friends.

Having played one season of Junior Varsity girls’ soccer in high school, I feel pretty confident in my ability to wax poetic on the benefits of sports. But soon after I traded in my shin pads for a sofa and my cleats for cable television, I found something that made me happier than endorphins ever could: uplifting sports movies.

I will not watch It’s a Wonderful Life, and I will not watch Miracle on 34th Street, and I will not watch any animated special urging me to celebrate the holiday season in Technicolor (that means no Grinch, no red-nosed reindeer, no Charlie Brown, and no grandma roadkill).

You know, I think the biggest influence — the biggest thing that set me apart from the other black kids was our family’s wealth more than anything else. That was the most determining factor that made me different.

Great Whites are evil monsters whose only objective is to treat you like you treat yellowtail sashimi or a ham sandwich. They’re evil. You could die in a cage while they glide around you, beady eyes dead set on your flesh. Which is pretty much exactly why I decided to plunk my flesh into a cage for three days and face these man-eating psycho fish.

Once we arrive at the restaurant and order our food, we begin to get to know one another. Typical stuff: “Do you like chess?” and “On a scale of 1-10, how appealing would you find it to spend Saturday afternoon flying a kite?” But then he drops a bomb. “Are you religious?” Yikes. On a first date? I know he hasn’t been on a date in like, centuries, but Jesus.

I want you to know, your mind will wander. Let it. You’re about to move into a hospital with four stark white walls, a bed, a TV set straight out of the ‘90s, and a slew of machines and monitors that will hum and beep endlessly through the night. You’re going to wonder “why you?” and then you’ll see the 7-year-old boy in the room next to you, with a brazenly bald head and a smile you can’t even fathom and you’ll wonder, “why him?”

If I had a stable living situation, a large house, and no one to judge me, I would stock the place with cats the way a pond is stocked with fish. Everywhere you turn — cat. On the table — cat. On the couch — cat. On the window — two cats. The walls would have a series of platforms for cats to perch on and glower down from like gargoyles.

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