Crappy apartments in questionable parts of town are good for one thing only. Cheap rent. It takes grit, or perhaps a masochistic streak, to live in such places. One day you’re deciding where to put the TV stand, the next you’re eating your sandwich under a makeshift tent made from bed sheets to keep the flying cockroaches from dive-bombing your plate.

Too much coffee makes my brain and my stomach feel like this. My brain is already like this. It doesn’t need any more caffeine, dammit.

I would not drive or even walk over such a poorly-constructed bridge. It looks like it could collapse at any moment. What kind of idiot would do that?

Solemn place of eternal rest? Or a rat’s nest filled with spider webs? Either way, gross.

After someone dies, we go to a lot of trouble to remove their blood and fill up their veins and arteries and capillaries with chemicals to preserve their bodies, which are just going to be buried. What kind of sense does that make?

When I was in 8th grade, my friend had a cassette recording of Poison’s Look What the Cat Dragged In. Inside the cover flap, there was a photo of the band in Spandex, with hair teased and Aquanetted until it threatened to blot out the sun and make-up so dramatic it made Divine clutch her pearls.

My friend had drawn diagonal parallel lines through Rikki Rockett’s hair with a ballpoint pen, but the costumes and make-up were so outlandish it almost looked like a ridiculously complicated dye job.