Yesterday, I read that for ten bucks you can name a hissing cockroach at the Bronx Zoo after your ex, and I considered it for a moment. I fucking loathe roaches on what is likely an unreasonable level, so ultimately it seemed like too much. I don’t hate my ex all the time. I do, however, hate roaches all the fucking time. 

There is also someone to whom I want to send one of those glitter bombs that tell them that they suck at life, but I won’t. I guess.