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Saint Honoré, that’d pair nicely with the can of “depression cheese” I’m clutching.
I’m an optimistic person in my own way, but there’s a danger in forceful optimism and not recognizing reality.
How could I forget the pink and gold box that came in the mail a month ago, filled with bridal puns and entirely too much confetti, the silent but deadly fart of the crafting and gift-wrapping world.
This synthetic cheese and I are one.
He still wears his shirt sleeves like Gene Kelly—high and tight. Neat. That doesn’t make me weak in the knees at all. Le nope.
“Ah—hence the apolocheese.”
Okay, Lizzie McGuire doodle, chill. Your naive ass got us in enough trouble already.
“Life sucks hard most of the time. Let me escape into a promised land where everything works out in the end.”
Monet is impressive and all, but have you ever licked a Monet?
Fuck—and I cannot stress this last part enough—me.
I busy myself finding the powdered sugar and ignoring the fact that I randomly started crying about—what I don’t even know. Bent penis, maybe? Well, no use crying over bent penis, I always say. Carry on then.
“I make it a point not to stab people who bring me Nutella.”
Cheese and rosé are always a good idea.
“Did you add our first wedding song to that list?” “Sadly no, I don’t think B*Witched’s ‘Rollercoaster’ really lends itself to a cute acoustic cover.”
I’m not going to pretend being bitch-slapped by a bird knocked any kind of sense into me.
