Mashed potatoes! If I’m ever on Death Row, I’m going to request a giant bowl of mashed potatoes for my last meal. No one would be able to judge me, either, because, hello? I’m on Death Row. I’ve clearly already made some decisions that were much worse than ordering a meal consisting entirely of carbohydrates.
Pie! Cake is pretty good, but it can be dry. Cookies are up there, but they take too long to bake. I don’t even know what’s going on with muffins (Are you a cupcake? Are you a dinner roll? You can’t be both, muffins.) Pie has no faults. It’s the perfect dessert.
My entire extended family wearing sweaters like they’re some kind of standard-issue, white person uniform!
America! Every morning when I read the news, America gives me another really good reason to hate its stupid guts. And every morning I look America deep in the eyes and I say, “I know you, America. You are faulty and you are beautiful. I’m conflicted, but I will always love you.” Then I put on a Bruce Springsteen song, turn it all the way up and think about presidents. I wish that was a joke.