The first thing I do when I come home is check the refrigerator for cats because I'm convinced that if one dies, my husband will hide it in there because I don't cook and so I won't see it. I do drink Cokes, though, so technically he should hide the corpse in the oven. And now I need to start checking the oven.

I am caught in a Mark Twain shame spiral.

Then something ran out from the brush and I screamed, “CHUPACABRA!” And then Victor slammed on the brakes and just stared at me like I’d gone insane. Probably because I’d been so flustered that I’d accidentally shouted, “CHALUPA!” which I’ll admit is disconcerting to have someone scream at you while you’re being attacked by a dangerous creature.

I’d like political candidates to present their prep plans for the zombie apocalypse, or for the robot revolution, or for when the Internet becomes self-aware, because at least then the debates would be more interesting.

They’re important but we’re ignoring a lot of other parts that are probably just as compliment-worthy and sexy because we’re too busy complimenting firm pecs and thin waists and untarnished souls. Branch out a little, is all I’m saying. It couldn’t hurt. I bet your small intestines are adorable.

Sometimes when I’m staying in thin-walled hotel rooms I’ll open up my laptop and play TV murder scenes really loudly to see if anyone ever calls the police to report a murder. No one ever does though. It’s like people just don’t care anymore.

It is an amazing gift to be able to recognize that the things that make you the happiest are so much easier to grasp than you thought.

It was the best of books, it was the worst of hairbrushes. Read it. Don’t tease your hair with it. – CHARLES DICKENS.

Dear Victor: This bath towel was wet and you left it on the floor and it was the last clean one in the house. I’m pretty sure this is how tuberculosis is spread. I’m writing all this in my blog in case I end up dead because of your carelessness.

Every time I get a pimple I worry that it’s the beginning of a new nipple.