If you’re a well-versed student of psychology or even a casual observer of the practice, you're aware that the brain is one messed-up organ, clinically speaking.
As if there are not enough reminders in our daily lives that we’re getting older, I think the biggest one may be the most depressing one, and that’s music on the radio.
One of my literature classes in college included of a study of fables, which are small, simple morality tales with animals often acting out metaphors of human behavior.
It’s funny when you hear two different things – totally separate from one another – and you make a connection that seems crazy at the moment, but eventually makes sense.
I spent nearly an hour the other morning trying to convince myself that I wasn’t a child actor who fell too early from grace and the stress from that caused dissociative amnesia so the whole thing was wiped from my mind.
I recently heard that looking at the gas prices at the pump has caused many people to suffer “sticker shock”, which, to be fair, is an inaccurate assessment.
During one of my regular trips to a certain fast food drive-thru to engage in death by super sizing, something caught my eye: they’re allowing customers to hack their menu.
Following the death of my father three years ago, I dedicated a column to him. So, with my mom passing away two weeks ago, I wanted to do the same for her. However, I couldn't find a column on standby that I could use, so I decided to rework my eulogy to her into a column.
I hope you’re not reading this week’s column through the hazy, thudding head of a New Year's Day hangover. If you are, then I hope you can live with your horrible, alcohol-induced decisions made during New Year’s Eve.
You know, Christmas time really does bring out the best in people.
Well, what I really mean is everyone is looking for "The Best". They always want the best tree, the best gift, the best Christmas-spirited punch and then the best hangover cure the next morning.
I was originally going to classify a phenomenon that I recently identified as something of a Christmas miracle; however, like Christmas miracles, I found it to really be commonplace-–something that everyone experiences and ignores, and they move on with their lives.
Because all my news about Texas comes from Australian media, The West Australian shared a story that a bar in Texas had posted a sign on their jukebox that reads…
PMI is my research and analysis of the hottest toys of the holiday season. Those toys are then assigned a rating on my proprietary PMI scale from 1 to 10 based on how miserable the toy will make an unsuspecting parent.
Yeah, I know it’s not even Thanksgiving yet, and I’m writing about what’s mostly a Christmas-themed subject, but everyone else seems to be doing it, and I caved under peer pressure.
It’s not often that I get appalled by a box of cereal, but then again, I originally thought pulling someone’s finger was a legitimate digestive aid, but then I turned 40 and recognized it for the childish act it is.
I was recently going through some old childhood photos, trying to pinpoint the exact date where everything started to go wrong. Right now, it can be either 1998 or 1999, so I can stop blaming Y2K now.
I always say I do my best thinking when I’m either sitting on the toilet or driving around; if I can figure out a way to do both at the same time, I’d truly be unstoppable.
I’ve been really wanting to take advantage of purchasing groceries online for pickup and delivery, but that “family” of mine insists that we grocery shop at the store so I can “get some air”, so I can “stop practicing to be a hermit” and so I can “relearn social interaction”.
There’s a lot to be said about political correctness and the euphemisms it spawns, but some instances of political correctness have turned into a waste of time ... literally.