What do you mean you don’t like dancing? Everyone likes dancing, everyone who isn’t an anxiety stricken, socially retarded recluse, everyone with a warm and living soul, everyone who feels an abiding connection with the world-spirit.
Take an extra-large, half piña colada, half coke Slurpee into the shower and guzzle it while the boiling hot water sprays your back.
But unfortunately, you can’t snatch cats off the street. You can’t wander down back alleys late at night with a great big bag and “adopt” every cat in sight. You can’t crawl into a storm drain and wait for them in the darkness, lurking for hours, listening to your own heavy breathing.
The show’s called I’m Pretty Sure I Know What You’re Going to Do Next Summer.
But I’ll be honest; when I think about cats demolishing the biosphere, stripping the food web to a few tenuous strands, leaving only a silent empty wilderness ruled by a savage cat nation, I think: Good. Delightful. Fantastic.
When you see her at the bar, do not approach; girls are easily startled and might dart into tiny holes in the floor if frightened.
My god, it’s a miracle he can open doors or hold a fork! Has this child only recently awoken from a decade-long coma, his muscles atrophied to dust? Did he grow up on a space station?
Of course, the appeal of the hot neighbor is impossible to deny; how can you consistently rebuff a lovely visage you see every day on the stairs?
The car suddenly swerved before righting itself, and my mom quietly put a blanket over her head for the subsequent duration. I could hear her muffled sobs.
The problem with clothes is their impermanence, their slow deterioration from snazzy garments into rags fit only for nuclear holocaust survivors, requiring replacement clothes, ever more replacement clothes.