the seating at the chicago theater was designed to give you body dysmorphia. seats small enough for a stuart little type. seats that could only fit a ghastly coal-mining child from the 19th century. you couldn’t fit two moderately-sized cantaloupes in those seats.
i think i need further cognitive testing because i just forgot bethenny frankel’s name. i couldn’t conjure it if i tried. brb looking up stroke protocol now
thinking about the time i jumped in a lake with period underwear on and absorbed approximately 1/4 of lake michigan directly into my gooch. the levels of sediment and debris inside of me would put the sandy dunes of mars to shame. there could still be a seashell inside me now
gonna start up an arcade/petting zoo called Beat a Dead Horse. pay $5 and you get to play Pac-Man with terminally ill ponies. (they won’t be very good. they are horses.)
You have not yet met all the people who will call you by your name delicately and intentionally. You have not yet met all the people who will treat you with grace and compassion. You have not yet met all the people who will look at you like the stars are dancing in your eyes.
why can’t i go to the pool if i’ve had diarrhea in the past week. am i not one of gods creations? am i not allowed to swim? i am in a constant state of diarrhea. i have a lifelong Miralax prescription. discrimination at its finest