Fight me if you think the Oxford Comma isn’t an anarchist. 


I get nervous when cleaning with Comet, as if it’d burn through me if it touched my skin, or somehow sink through three tiny pores and poison me. If you don’t understand the irony in that, it’s not my place to explain it to you. Maybe we’ve spent our youths and Saturday nights in contrast, or perhaps very similar just with a slight change in the minute details of what constitutes the party.