Nathan Savin Scott

Writers who decide they want to BE A WRITER forget that, because they’re so concerned with “sounding like a writer” that they become more concerned with sounding smart than they do with communicating what they’re trying to say.

This notice also refuses to acknowledge the argument that using Facebook 10 hours a day and complaining about it for eight of them is akin to washing your hair every day with bleach and then screaming how mad you are that your hair is yellow-green and falling out in patches.

I know if I keep up this meta-commentary any more that you will move from “charmed” to “annoyed” rather quickly, if you aren’t there already.

Well, what’s the pants policy?

A towel? Like, a paper towel? Or a regular towel. I don’t know, when I mean paper towel I never just say “towel,” I say “paper towel.” A towel is a towel. So, OK. To the bathroom!

Let’s just put it this way: watching a mature-beyond-her-years girl balance the advances of a platonic male friend who clearly wants more and the badgering of a right-wing twerp who thinks he can get under her skin by teasing her…well, that sounds like every Thursday night out I’ve had at a bar in DC.

I don’t like screaming over a dubstep bass drop when they ask me how my job is. I would like to be able to tell them “terrible and soul crushing” in a normal speaking voice, thank you very much.

A perfect friend is someone who is always there for you, no matter what. For you, above all else. No matter what your friend is going through, you come first. You know what that sounds like a more accurate description of? A butler.

Wisecracking, delightful. You always know that Bugs can make you laugh. Then again, his intimacy doesn’t seem to go beyond smacking huge kisses on the lips of both males and females, and he also only seems to eat carrots, which would probably get old after a while. But you can get over that.

I was wearing my gray suit, which is my fancy party suit, but then again it is also my funeral suit and my wedding suit and my Bar Mitzvah suit and my job interview suit.

I know art heists are bad. So are shark attacks, though. And just because shark attacks are bad doesn’t change the fact that I love Jaws and will continue to watch it every summer when it comes on SpikeTV or whatever.

Witch-off! Vicki Valencourt’s hair turns to snakes, maybe. They’re talking a lot. Lot of angst. Then all hell breaks loose. Empire Records just disappeared. VV whipped out a huge knife? INSANITY! INSANITY! Something just happened! Too fast. Not sure.

Little presumptuous to call it the “World” Series, don’t you think?

It’s part of this world we grew up in, dominated by advertisers, where we are shown (repeatedly, constantly, to the point of near perpetuity) the same jingoistic songs, the “He likes it! Hey Mikey!” repetitions that come part and parcel with being (growing up, living) as an American.

She doesn’t much care what the President’s fiscal policy for the next four years is, but she is prepared to put a generous glass of Pinot Grigio straight to her dome if he says “47%.”

Contractually / have to drink all this freaking / Red Bull. Jittery.

One of the biggest disappointments in my life thus far has been finding out how little this is true. In the grand scheme of things, no one really cares what I listen to.

The guy who makes fun of everything. Everything is lame. Everything sucks. This can be employed either to show that he has a tough external guard up against the world that needs to be broken down, or that he’s just so cool this world is not for him.