I want this Twitter account to outlive me by 100 years. I want my grandchildren to read my Tweets and say, "Holy fuck. She was so weird."

I can always tell when my kids need money because they text me in the middle of the day saying how beautiful and sweet I am.

The Wednesday yoga teacher is young and chaotic in a good way. Her classes are crazy and hard. She screams YES YOU CAN if anyone wants to quit. Only hip hop plays. I am by far her favorite “mom type” which of course is how it should be.

“You Can See Everything” is an absolute mindfuck. Is she a psychopath? Is she a quirky do gooder who falls for the wrong guys? Reader, I don’t know.

“Stacey’s mom has got it going on.” Bro, she’s in her late seventies you sick fuck.

Every day I get the rundown on the high school theater department, and let me tell you, it’s dramatic.

I’m entering my bitter old hag era.

I have a visceral reaction to whimsical behavior and that reaction is uncontrolled vomit.

My kids: Mom, you spoil that dog. Me: Yes.

Oh my god the moon.

I’ve got $8 cash, which makes me motherfucking KING of the bin store.

The Monday yoga teacher is smoking hot. Her classes are insanely hard, and she has no mercy. Afterward we lie on the mats in the dark and she softly talks about practicing detachment. This is my drug.

Tonight my yoga teacher told the class we deserve to be seen and loved. WHAT?!