I think that alongside Redfoo and Sky Blu, I would be probably the greatest Music Designer in history. In fact, I have already legally changed my name to Josh Gondelman, MD in anticipation of the success of my first single. I have designed it in hopes of joining their music-creating group.

At H&M, but it wasn’t in our size because — we really think — people hide the popular-sized love in other sections of the store so they can come back and get it later when it’s on sale.

I recently saw a Yankee Candle in Tennessee, which is the final nail in the coffin of “The South Will Rise Again.” If the dependence on northern scented wax has penetrated below the Mason-Dixon line, there will be no stopping this juggernaut. So clearly, they’re doing pretty well, but I have a few suggestions of candle-scents for today’s young person.

I’m paid to analyze the most trivial thoughts and irrelevant events in the lives of complete strangers, and even I don’t care about this. I’d rather watch a Celebrity Rehab marathon than spend another second dealing with the worthless drivel you post in your “updates.”

Please, Mr. Bond. I wouldn’t offer it to you if I didn’t want you to have it. It’s the least I can do. You managed to find your way into my well-guarded inner sanctum. You disposed of myriad henchmen. And now, here you are, on the brink of not only the collapse of society, but your own imminent death as well.

This asseveration lead me to the undeserved conceit of imagining life as Ellis (“…after all, who am I compared to him?” says the Woody Allen sequitir in my head), and thus, to imagining what I would do if I were B.E.E. for a day.

There is one element that all of my failed relationships share. Through all the many variations of womanhood that I have been familiar with, but a single thread carries through all of these dalliances. They involved a heavy amount of physical intimacy.


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