“I’m going to go through all of the stages of grief, but not in the right order,” A warned me as we went in to see Hillary Clinton. “So good luck.”
There’s regular crazy and then there’s succulent crazy.
You can’t keep a 200 year-old bottle of balsamic in your dorm, kids.
I’ve survived finals, the flu and Seasonal Affective Disorder Madness Night. I need some movies.
Amusement park safety standards in the ‘40s left something to be desired.
Most of her waking thoughts are devoted to “How can we see a beluga?”
It’s just flour and water and onions and magic.
Dad whispered, “Did you bring the ponchos?”