When you enter your late twenties, there’s an undeniable (albeit metaphorical) shift in the air.
Coworkers often mistake my naturally dry delivery for callousness, so that even an expression of genuine concern is met with a “knowing” look and I die a bit inside, because my sarcastic personality is mixed with the deadly combination of being a people pleaser.
When you hate people, talking to them can be a fate worse than death.
Q: What do you say when you don’t want to go to yoga?
A: Namaste at home.
She doesn’t have to be funny, she shouldn’t want to be funny. It’s not a priority.
Let’s float through this noncommittal hookup with some ground rules, shall we?
Here’s your guide to domestic bliss.
Sunday Funday, better than a Monday.
“Oh God. I just realized I’m stuck with me my whole life.”
It must be so hard—all those nights when you just aren’t sure if you can control yourself from harming another human being.