Really? If I could hate my trainer? That would be ideal. I'd prefer to despise this person with the fire of ten thousand suns. So when I walk - nay, crawl - out of here at the end of my workouts, I want to lull myself to sleep by picturing my very talented and inspirational trainer getting hit by a bus. A bus that I am driving.

Everyone who reads me is someone I'd like to hang out with.

No, it's not a 'corpse thing.' I feel I lack the emotional capacity to deal with those in mourning.

Fortunately, all it takes for us to be of one mind is some buttercream frosting.

I still believe in the Holy Trinity, except now it's Target, Trader Joe's, and IKEA.

Ambien might have mentally just tossed my salad. WITH CROUTONS.

I've always been able to cook Italian food. That's in my blood because I'm half Sicilian.