v.1 (Yiddish) to complain
I don’t know who should feel more relieved, P.J. or Kate Middleton …
To the dude pouring vodka into his water bottle in the Arboretum: Don’t worry, no one saw.
To the car blasting hardcore gangsta rap: You go lil’ ginger girl.
Dear mom bragging about how she KNOWS her son won’t party at all next year: Enjoy your delusion. I’ll see him and his frat-star hat on Franklin by FallFest.
Aw yea, P.J.’s freer than that shitty purple stuff at Sig Ep.
Describe the kvetching board in three words: Drunk. Squirrel. Sex.
Social liberals: committed to helping the less fortunate … unless it’s still inside a vagina.
Dear universe: Nothing starts a day better than watching a hawk swoop down like an angel of death and tear into a squirrel right in front of me.
Ellie Kinnaird: the original raging granny.
Chapel Hill needs to ban running shirtless, except for the tan guy wearing Lululemons. If God was kind, you would have many more brothers.
To my ancient professor: Just because you can’t hear your farts doesn’t mean we can’t.
To my landlord who charged a penny for utility overages, then wouldn’t take cash: Your bureaucratic bullshit puts the General Assembly to shame.
Just saw a guy walking down Franklin Street in a Duke shirt eating Sweet Frog: Figures.
Love that my DTH is always dry, but those newspaper boxes are vicious finger death traps.
Dear roommate: For someone who weighs only 125 pounds, you stomp around like an elephant in heat.
Dear unpaid temp: This stoned Ram Shop summer student employee does get paid. P.S. We are also accepting applications.
Reading through archived kvetches, I realize just how obsessed with sex everyone is. Chill out and try going on a date — there’s more to life.
Haha, yeah. That’s my blood.
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