With cohesive experience in aimlessness, malaise, and self-loathing, I believe I have the combination of spirit and emotional illiteracy to be a weighty resource for the unconcerned employer.
The strap falling off the shoulders. So. Freaking. Annoying. I have better things to do than continually reaching into my shirt like a weirdo to pull up a fallen bra strap. CAN YOU JUST STAY ON MY DAMN SHOULDER?! YOU HAVE ONE JOB.
“If you were a character in The Oregon Trail, would you rather die of measles or dysentery?”
New beginnings. Wiping the slate entirely clean, as clean as linens, and just feeling so fresh and clean in mind and soul.
I’ve had sex on a blimp. Not in a blimp, on a blimp. This was better.
You should always have people you consider enemies.
You lied at least once about having Yellow Fever to get out of gym class.
Friendship? That’s not going to do it justice. We’re partners. Brothers even, cut from the same cloth and we’ve been inseparable since the day I was born. We got a bond homie, there’s no denying that.
Notice how entirely unimpressed she is. But you know she’s just playing the game.
We can fight back against the Elf on the Shelf. We can fight back against the watchful eye, the intrusive ear, of those who would see our every move, those who would listen.