I Giggled Out Loud At His Stupidity.

She's Afraid To Tell Me Anything Important, Knowing I'll Only Turn Around And Write About It. In My Mind, I'm Like A Friendly Junkman, Building Things From The Little Pieces Of Scrap I Find Here And There, But My Family's Started To See Things Differently. Their Personal Lives Are The So-called Pieces Of Scrap I So Casually Pick Up, And They're Sick Of It. More And More Often Their Stories Begin With The Line "you Have To Swear You'll Never Repeat This." I Always Promise, But It's Generally Understood That My Word Means Nothing.

There’s A Lot I Don’t Tell My Father When He Calls Asking After Amy. He Wouldn’t Understand That She Has No Interest In Getting Married And Was, In Fact, Quite Happy To Break Up With Her Live-in Boyfriend, Whom She Replaced With An Imaginary Boyfriend Named Ricky. The Last Time She Was Asked Out By A Successful Bachelor, Amy Hesitated Before Saying, ‘thanks For Asking, But I’m Really Not Into White Guys Right Now.

I Mean, I'm Always Happy If I Have, Like, Humiliating Asshole Things That I Did. I Think: Oh Good, That's A Good Story. Because If You Write About Humiliating Asshole Things Other People Do It Doesn't Work As Well. I Mean, You Can, But You Can Get Away With It Better If You Talk About What An Asshole You Are. It's Much Easier.

The Woman In Charge Of Costuming Assigned Us Our Outfits And Gave Us A Lecture On Keeping Things Clean. She Held Up A Calendar And Said, "ladies, You Know What This Is. Use It. I Have Scraped Enough Blood Out From The Crotches Of Elf Knickers To Last Me The Rest Of My Life. And Don't Tell Me, 'i Don't Wear Underpants, I'm A Dancer.' You're Not A Dancer. If You Were A Real Dancer You Wouldn't Be Here. You're An Elf And You're Going To Wear Panties Like An Elf.

It's Safe To Assume That By 2085 Guns Will Be Sold In Vending Machines But You Won't Be Able To Smoke Anywhere In America.