In which I share three things…
My boss let my office out of work early yesterday because of all the confusion surrounding the
possible terror threat.
This might be the only good thing advertising has ever done for me.
My office keeps sending these mass e-mails informing us of the
outbreak around Boston. Every time I see the word “norovirus,” I think of the rototiller garden tool. Why?
I’ve had this song stuck in my head all day:
I wish I could blame the state of my brain on “all those drugs I did in the 60’s.” But I was born in ’77. Now what's my excuse?