Giggle. Cuss. Drink. Repeat.

Airports are chaos factories, but nothing says “romance” like The Boy nearly doing the splits on an escalator at 4 a.m. while I cackled on my back and The Recluse pretended not to know us.

Every grocery trip is a low-budget Hunger Games, complete with squeaky-wheeled chariots, aisle blockers, and cart abandoners who treat the parking lot like a demolition derby.

My coping mechanism is snacks. Crackers, fruit, vegetables (but don’t you dare call them veggies). Basically, if life happens, I’m eating about it. Snacks are my love language. Fight me.

I recently found myself stranded by a snow squall in a Weis parking lot. My brilliant solution? Walk two miles through the woods in sweatpants, a cardigan, and not a shred of dignity — kept alive only by the fear of being discovered frozen, underwear-free, in the morning news.

My coffee need is inversely related to my ability to make the required coffee.

I was unprepared to discover women were just as evil, more so because we attack our own gender.

The problem is, how do you make real friends as an adult?

Since I have yet to be placed in charge of a federal DMV, let's run down some basic driving rules.

Am I saying that the universe lost my favorite earring on purpose, knowing it would lead me to my favorite guy?

Everyone knows cancer is bad, and cleavage is good.