David Bowie must return to this pedestal at least once every 4 years or he will forever be turned to stone.
Come here, family. You are all our family now, Stamps.com will say, stretching their many boneless arms around your terrified family. Come here, we are all loving family.
I’m officially naming this award season “the year stars stopped giving a fuck”
Graham Norton, Lena Dunham, and Idris Elba help an audience member reply to a text message.
An unexpected dream team.
waitin 4 this dork 2 take me to dinner and talk 2 me about snakes
Buy a vintage claw-foot bathtub from an architectural salvage yard and fill it to the lip with fresh guacamole. Submerge myself in the cool, comforting embrace of the mashed avocados. Remain submerged until my generalized sense of dread dissipates, or until the guac turns brown, whichever happens first.
Spend more time lying face down on my living room floor, muttering about the government.
Quit my job, sell my possessions, and travel the country in search of the mythical(???) chupacabra. Film my quest on a hand-held Flip Cam. Post to YouTube. Wait for fame.
Read more books.
Grow my hair into a nest. Crawl inside. Sell myself to a Coney Island freak show as the Amazing Human Hairball. Eat Nathan’s hot dogs daily. Achieve enlightenment.
Make a bikini out of pizza. Patent the design. Devour the product.
Open a daycare for pet octopi. It’ll be like doggy daycare, but underwater, and instead of being a venerable place to bring your pets, it’s actually an underground gambling ring where surly chain-smoking bookies force your beloved little octopus friend to choose between brightly colored rocks representing various sports teams, and high-stakes bets are made accordingly. Octopi who choose poorly over time will be made into snax.
Marry rich. Convince my new husband to install an Olympic-size swimming pool in the mansion house that we already own, because of course we do. Fill the pool with pudding. Drown.
Design and produce a line of all-tinfoil business wear for conspiracy-minded career women.
Open a repair shop for broken-down keytars.
Paper mache a giant egg out of junk mail and other people’s parking tickets. Fill it with chocolate coins and old wigs. Push it around town in a baby carriage until I come across an unlocked car. Buckle the egg into the front seat. Leave a note on the windshield that says, “Carpe Diem, my friend.”