I believe that you can’t catch flies with vinegar.
I believe that you can catch flies with honey.
I believe that if you’re trying to catch flies, you have much bigger problems than your fly catching methodology.
I believe in tearing out every perfume ad in a magazine before I start reading it.
I believe in then running those perfume ads through my shredder so my office smells like a Berber-carpeted bordello.
I believe that “Berber-carpeted bordello” is the next hot trend in home design.
I believe that I’ll always be charmed by people with thick southern accents calling me “Weendee.”
I believe that I’ll never be charmed by people with thick Vietnamese accents calling me “ugly hammer toe ladywrinkleface why she gottas the bad heels all da time?”
I believe that there will soon be a reality show about Costco sample workers called “One Per Customer, Bitch.”
I believe that my husband will be seen on that show, sprinting down an aisle with a stack of Kirkland ham slices in his cheeks and two pounds of mini-enchiladas in his fists.
I believe that if someone doesn’t want to be called “The Juicy Assed Unabomber,” that someone shouldn’t walk around the neighborhood wearing a pink velour hoodie and big rhinestoned sunglasses. Maryann.
I believe that when my hair’s not combed, I look like a San Diego weed dealer named “Stewie.”
I believe that when my hair’s not washed, I look like a San Diego meth dealer named “Jimbo.”
I believe that I should probably never set foot in San Diego.
I believe you should always dress for the job you want.
I believe that the Pocahontas-themed figure skating costume I’m wearing today is chafing my inner thighs.
I believe that if my Spin class instructor continues to play Train’s “Hey, Soul Sister” during class, I will smash her iPod with a 5-pound weight.
I believe that when I do this, I will be crowned La Queen of Spin Class.
I believe that when I am La Queen of Spin Class, I will be given all the motherf*#@ing Costco samples I want.
I believe that the day you go to the grocery store with a leaky nursing bra is the day you’ll be interviewed by the local news about the rise in milk prices.
I believe being interviewed about the rise in milk prices while you’re nursing is what’s called “cruel, delicious irony.”
I believe that local news reporters shouldn’t overreact when someone chucks a tub of low-fat cottage cheese at their microphone.
I believe that moviegoers who show up late and ask people to move seats should be pelted with handfuls of unpopped popcorn kernels.
I believe that moviegoers who talk during a movie should be pelted with handfuls of frozen Milk Duds.
I believe that moviegoers who are in the same theater as me should probably just show up dressed in major league catcher’s gear and sit in the front row.
I believe that if I wear matching socks, I will lose my mojo.
I believe that if I wear reading glasses, I will lose my mojo.
I believe that “mojo” is the name of my wine bottle opener.
I believe that Flo from the Progressive Insurance commercials is an agent of Satan.
I believe that because I said that, Flo is now crouched under my bed like a Capuchin monkey.
I believe that if I drink a Red Bull, I will have a heart attack.
I believe that if I drink a Red Bull with vodka, I will have a heart attack with no pants on.
I believe that I will definitely encourage my neighbor Maryann to drink a few Red Bull and vodkas this weekend.
I believe that spell check has now corrected the way I’ve spelled “believe” over 15 times.
I believe that I’m now pretty damn tired of my beliefs.
And I believe that you are, too.