Neil deGrasse Tyson and Edward Snowden are becoming Twitter BFFs. I predict in twenty years they’ll be the next Patrick Stewart/Ian Mckellen.

Talking about boobs with Alan Cumming and Helen Mirren is my idea of the perfect Saturday afternoon. We’ll obviously get day drunk together and the whole thing will turn into an ethereal slumber party.

This article leads me to the following conclusions:

Walking into walls, crying into the shoulders of strangers I have just professed my love to, and feeling reeeeally good about myself are all parts of my personality, so....sounds legit.

I hate that guy!

Did someone ask her to describe her perfect date? My perfect date is April 25th because it’s not too hot and not too cold. All you need is a light jacket.

Part of the problem with online dating is you can set these parameters and cherry pick the type that you date as opposed to us old folks who had to rely solely on meeting someone IRL. The guy that I fell in love with is not a guy I would choose from a dating site. Attraction and chemistry are more complex than height…

This story is 98 degrees of wrong. Nick. Nick Lachey! And tuna is the chicken of the sea!

I love me some Nancy Meyers—I’m still waiting to turn into one of her characters, I’ve convinced myself it’s the perk I’m going to get from aging—but her Mel Gibson anecdote and proclamation of love for Jack made me squeamish. Those are bad dudes.

I wanted Serena to win too, but can we still agree it’s fucked up that Vinci felt the need to apologize so many times for winning?

I read this article after that Muck Hikeabee nonsense and that list of creepy things Trump has said. Suffice to say, my brain feels so much better.

I can’t decide whether having Stacey Dash and Miley Cyrus in a school supplies aisle makes me hate Dash’s #girlsloveshopping hashtag more or less.

I’m going to start all my sentences from now on with, “According to that Russian guy...”

So, let me get this straight...

Weird because I won’t so much as stop on a radio station if Chris Brown is there.

Cue the parade of NOPE gifs. Otherwise I'm just going to start throwing things.

Remember that episode of The Mindy Project when Danny, Morgan, and Jeremy all read Mindy’s diary and said the section where she ranked the races was chilling? That was funny.

Once upon a time, a company we’ll call “Schmattel” paid me $25/hr to go to events dressed as a character we’ll call “Flarbie” and then I turned 28 and I haven’t heard from them since.

I was very self-conscious going places when I was enormously pregnant because of the staring, the unsolicited touching, the questions. Good comparison, Brian Cranston.

I am also grateful to Kate Winslet for baring her non-pornstar boobs. I stopped hating my breasts when I realized they resembled Kate Winslet’s.