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When I am in the throes of waiting on something until tomorrow, there is almost no limit to the other things I can do. Let’s say there is a big work project that awaits me: Time to clean my entire apartment from top to bottom.

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Unfollow them on Twitter. Unfollowing loosely translates to “I hate your brain and the thoughts that come out of it. Seeing your tweets makes my insides die a little bit more each day. See you at the next party though!”

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My mom turns to me and in a small voice, she says, “I’m scared.”

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The stress dream I have about my teeth usually goes like this: I’m sitting with some people, on a carpet or out to dinner or wherever, and I start to nonchalantly pull my teeth out one by one.

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They constantly tell you how they think you should live your life or how what you’re doing is wrong because it’s not how they would do it. They insist you engage with them on their schedule whenever they want to harass you. They belittle your priorities just because they don’t understand them.

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This is quite possibly the most tired I’ve ever felt. I plop into bed. Breathing calmly… easing off into dreamland… Almost out, and then…

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I want good sex, comfortable sex, exciting sex, and boring sex all with the same person. I want central air conditioning and a dog. I want a backyard and laundry inside my house. I want nice weather, no snow, no rain boots. I want to stop measuring success based on the amount that’s on my paycheck.

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You see a therapist? You must be Woody Allen. You must be a navel-gazing lunatic. You must be an unbearable human being.

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Between flash drives and the simple option of clicking “file,” followed by “save,” there are very few reasonable excuses for losing a file.

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If everyone in the world got down with their bad self just once a week, we would have no wars. Fact.