Someone once told me that when, say, Person A calls Person B stubborn, that just means that Person B refuses to do what Person A wants. I think that’s fair enough, but I also think that when I make my eighty-seven year-old grandmother walk fifty extra feet to a mall entrance, because I refuse to enter malls through department stores, or I insist on a seven-year-old admitting he was wrong (and I was right) about the rules of a particular board game before I continue to play with him, it wouldn’t be. . . unjust to characterize me as stubborn.

I always forget how much I hate memoirs until I read one and think, Oh my god, enough about you.

One of the best things about not living with my parents is that my father doesn’t have to see how often I almost put my hand down a still-running garbage disposal. I did this three times last week. I think in my eagerness to push the cucumber peels down the drain, I forget the method by which they’re disposed.

During a discussion that wandered variously between baseball, probability, and murder, my roommate and I realized that I’m more likely to date a professional baseball player – and a GOOD one – than be murdered by a serial killer. This is an enormous comfort to me.

I think I’m only afraid of those little sprouts that grow on potatoes because the sprouts are called "eyes."

Sometimes I just want to drink a lot of ginger ale. Like, a lot.

Last summer I managed to figure out a way to politely but honestly answer the “weakness” part of the question “What are your greatest strengths and weaknesses?” Now when I exhibit those weaknesses at work, I always think, At least I warned them.