This is what happens when you try to eat beef jerky in a dog daycare
Shoutout to the girls gettin chub rub but walking like your life isn’t falling apart because your inner thighs are on fire
Teddy Roosevelt’s diary entry from the day his wife died. He never spoke of her death again.
Weigh in: Is this art? Are his words an outpouring of poetic sadness, or is it just raw emotion? Does art need the intent of being art to be art?