Fart in the tub and then look at us like That wasn’t me, that was the OTHER baby in this tub.
Pronounce “haute couture” as “hoe coo toe” because you just don’t know any better.
Forgive me for only now removing my ex-boyfriend’s name off the title of the car you drive to work everyday to support this family. You are a fucking saint.
Send me an email in which you mean to refer to me as a blogger, but instead refer to me as a booger.
Love me even though I wake up in the morning looking like a chubby eight year old boy who cried himself to sleep.
Come out of a funeral home bathroom and say, “This place belongs on your website.”
Have a dream about my belly being covered entirely by a tattoo of a “17th century painting of an English farm with some animals in the yard and a great barley field around it.” That’s the BEST dream about my belly EVER, and I don’t even know you.
Tell me to recompile my kernel. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like a lot of fun.
Love me despite the fact that you can’t tell whether that was me burping or the sound of a three-ton snow plow driving by our house.
Promise to put away your butt crack when the neighbors show up.