Cat.

... Y'know what, sure. why not

Tea.

people on this site should remember to beep before they boop

you are kidnapped by aliens and they are going to do an anal probe, do you extend your duolingo streak yes or no

@catboymoments that cat will make you explode. there is no other reason as to why it is looking at you like that.

I love my kittyyyyyyyyy

My beloved hazy

Tuesday February 7.

The Chosen One: Vanilla Extract.

The hero we need and deserve right now. Ever been making a cake, and then baking a cake, and then consuming a cake, a cake you will subsequently defecate, when you've been haunted by that strangest of feelings that something just isn't quite right? That something is missing. That within this process there has been a void beyond that of the baking process: a void that is not just culinary, but spiritual. It's good, but it's not right. You made it as instructed, and it looks good, and tastes fine too. The good people around you have also taken a fork, which they have politely, and apparently sincerely, enjoyed. One even took a picture which they will later upload on Instagram, with crude, flashing animations of cakes, and captions reading: Cake time! Yum!. The words jump merrily from side to side in neon colors and the cake rests handsomely, with several slices missing. But you know, they know it. It is evident in their expressions: the light is dimmed in their smiles somewhat. They too possess something unshakeable in this mouthful. Something here is left to be desired, and desire as Robert Hass ruminates, is full of endless distances. Hold the f*cking phone, someone says, their eyes suddenly luminous. I know what this needs: #vanilla extract. 

assuming both partners have fully developed frontal lobes, what is an appropriate age gap (i am asking in context of my parents)

isn't it enough that i am sexy and smart? i have to be good at math too? bitch

throwback to when my delirious five year old sister sat on the toilet, counted on her fingers, and declared with bone-deep wonder and joy that 7 + 3 is eleven

you can pry this potato out of my cold, dead hands