Group work, but only if it brings up the average.
I just couldn’t take it seriously, but I guess I’m also not to be taken seriously.
The only thing worse than writing a poem about regrets and sorrow is trying to explain it.
I don’t know. I think I just wanted to write a Mothers Day poem that had the word “episiotomy.”
I had some time on a tour bus in Las Vegas. I met a man. I wish him well.
Feels like taking the Lord’s name in vain to use his authority to crusade against a fake rabbit, no?
I had a lot of time to think about tithing, and I realized I only know how little I know.