Then I look over at Chad Chadson’s post and he has response after response. I mean come on! All he said was that women are “cool” and that we just need to “like not be sexist”. Even my TA dropped a response: “So true bestie”. Am I that irrelevant?
Spam Risk sounds kind of rugged. Smells like pine. Those two-syllable names really get me. Like… James Bond. Or Hugh Grant.
I’m sick of making excuses like “I have projectile diarrhea”.
But I’ve already done my birth chart, Flippy, and it’s bad! King Julian sun, Maurice moon, and Mort rising? How am I supposed to get any pussy with a Mort rising?
I’m writing this in a public newspaper editorial because I don’t really feel comfortable giving you my number.
“Picture this fever-inducing, body-aching, taste-and-smell-removing scenario in your head, and let me know what you think.”
“My dad claimed that he is a cicada and that he needed to hibernate for 17 years.”
What should I do? I didn’t even know I had a LinkedIn.
I mean, if any woman besides me were to be texting my boyfriend, I would want it to be Kamala Harris. I just don’t know what to believe.
Dear Flippy, One week ago, I finally hit a new max bench press (225 pounds). While I appreciate my buddy Keith smacking my ass and saying that I’m “yolked as shit, bro,” I find myself yearning for attention in other facets of my life. To solve this, I have been trying to interject my max bench press (102.058 kilograms) into casual conversation. However, I’m worried that my lift-related comments aren’t being received as they should be. How can I delicately