In wake of attempts to hack Lockhead Martin, I hit an old lady with my car. She ended up no longer able to spread misinformation about medical conditions.
I have a tattoo saying "The Werewolf of Loup Garou."
When my six-year-old kissed another boy, he got violent. This was the album that got us through.
As someone who has cleaned hotel rooms, my friend's dad had many experiences with failed plants.
The reclusive writer of "To Kill a Mockingbird" took a razor to my thigh.
I grew and reached and got as liberal as they come, then children arrived and my basil was pure acid.
As my father lay dying of lung cancer, I sniffed a vial of white stuff thinking it was coke. After all, I'm too white to live, or something like that, and I kept waiting for "grown-up" land to appear.