Happy Birthday, Mom. I miss you every single day.
I love you.
This is my Netflix account at really any given time.
🚨🚨🚨ATTENTION: THIS IS NOT A DRILL.🚨🚨🚨 This bag of Fritos has alerted me to 2017's first crisis. Garth Brooks has, it seems, been wrongly imprisoned. We must do something, friends. Let us plan our course of action; America's top-selling country artist needs us.
I lost my mom, Barbara Savage, three years ago today.
In a lot of ways, I am still exactly where I was that day. It doesn't get any better. And, honestly, I don't want it to.
When she was younger, before she had me, she used to go to the Taft Hotel in Midtown on Christmas Eve and order a Brandy Alexander.
It's not a drink you see much anymore, but it's easy enough to make. And the Taft Hotel has since been renamed The Michelangelo, but it's still there.
Each year, at around this time, I go in, order two Brandy Alexanders, drink one, and leave.
Thank you, mom. The only reason I have been able to do anything is because you were willing to sacrifice everything.
I love you.
My colleague figured out how to tie his shoes in the most efficient way possible.
This is incredible. I am absolutely amazed. (Oh, and this is him doing it slowly so I could understand the wizardry.)