Sadly, there is such a genre in Exceedingly White Music:

D. Do “C” but then back over him a few times to be really sure.

I was the generation that packed a lunch on grade school summer vacation mornings, and went exploring fields, and abandoned farmhouses, and swaths of forest from morning to dusk, unsupervised. Got up to nothing worse than eating multiple candy bars in a tree, for brunch, and tossing away my sandwich.

That is not a head hair. 😫

Yup. Seat Belt-Free Generation here. Free ranging in the station wagon, dead of winter, all the windows rolled up, both parents chain smoking. Backs against the unlocked car doors, leg wresting with my sister, as we hurtled down the freeway.

Where you learned about women, apparently:

I could never serve in the Senate, because my irises and pupils spend at least half of their days aimed at the bottom of my anguished brain, or doing loop-de-loops.

I think the cop failed his drug test, since he’s holding a urine specimen, and looking sad. DAMN CONTACT HIGHS FROM HIPPIES/THUGS/WHAT HAVE YOU

There is an awful lot of receptive hand business going on here.

“Whatever happens to me, happens to me, but don’t you get none of this on you.”

Me, looking at her, looking at #louvre, looking at her, looking at louvre.

Yeah, this is the crime that needs to stop. Top priority.

At this guy. This guy right here. He’s a real bastard.

The sweet thing about Flower Pot from a Windowsill Amnesia, is that it’s entirely curable, by a second, nearly identical flowerpot falling on the head a short time later (ideally within 30 minutes, give or take a few commercials.)

Amnesia from a flower pot falling on her head, please. That’s my favorite amnesia. It’s amnesia ambrosia.

I’m going to poop in Joel Osteen’s shoes because nobody told me not to.

Qualifications: