Tomorrow night, as I have mentioned elsewhere, I will be drugging my kitties to get them through the fireworks. As I have *not* mentioned elsewhere, tomorrow, I’m buying ingredients for an Olive Garden chicken gnocchi soup knockoff, and I will be making that soup Sunday. I’m working on building up a freezer stash of…

That, and she looks nothing like Ivanka. That’s what initially tipped me off that this was a fake.

Yeah, definitely a fake... her boobs are only like, a B-Cup. Should be D, at least

Or a confederate flag one.

Mormons have proven over and over they are real believers.

She should be wearing an American flag bikini.

What boggles about people who take the Bible literally is that the people who fucking wrote it don’t believe it to be literal. It would be like us reading 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea as a historical text even though it was written as fiction. All of the dudes that wrote the Bible stories just happened to get…

I do see college-me’s point about it, it would be pretty ridiculous to carry around a bunch of scribbled notes from my youth for the rest of forever, but I do kind of wish I’d kept some of them, just for posterity. The good thing is, my best friend still apparently has a shoebox full of our notes to each other, and I…

a simpler time, back when i truly believed that spending an hour writing my name + her name a thousand times in a row was a good use of my resources.

This is the kind of gift that only a teenager would have the energy and focus to create. When I think of some of the friendship collages and love coupon books that my friends and I made back in the day, it baffles me how any of us had the time. No one does over the top like a teenager.

All for a relationship that’ll be over by the end of the school year.

I just want to imagine her giving it to the guy, with her eyes glowing with pride, and then he opens it up, and is like... 

If Voldemort hate-fucked the Emperor, their baby would be 2016.

I’m fairly certain that the birds falling from the skies is right up there with the sun turning as black as sack cloth and the mood as red as blood as a signal of the Apocalypse.

Trying to figure out how much of the rest of my work day I can spend in the bathroom holding back tears. I did manage an impromptu desk memorial with some stolen Christmas flowers.

Thank you for everything, Carrie. For your bravery and charm and your refusal to shut up or give up. For lifting the veil off mental illness. For refusing to be ashamed. And most of all for showing my daughter that being a princess isn’t just about finding a prince. You will be so missed.

And of course Trump can’t not comment to someone who thinks he isn’t the cat’s meow. Lord help us all these next four years.

BTW, I would have loved a debate between Obama and Trump.