Ladyfingers: Oh My, Corona

By : Sabrina Ambra
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By a show of recently washed hands, who is fucking exhausted of hearing/reading/saying the word “coronavirus?”

I think the only person who is slightly thankful for this shit show of a pandemic is Ozzy Osbourne, who has relinquished his title of “guy who bit off a bat’s head” and given it to its new, rightful owner: Patient Zero. Speaking of silver linings, with this influx of facemask purchases I’d like to imagine that there is a big percentage of folks finally getting a whiff of their stank-ass breath they had previously been sending directly into our nostrils. Mortgage rates are at lifetime lows, the stock market is plummeting, toilet paper is nowhere to be found. Take it all in, my friends, and then chase that with a dollop of hand sanitizer in your mouth or whatever.

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Ladyfingers: Spine-chilling buzz kill

By : Sabrina Ambra
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‘Tis the season for scary stories, I hear. Somewhere between the “Dr. Feltersnatch” OBGYN costume and the human skull beer funnel is the timeless Halloween tradition of inducing panic through the telling of horrifying tales.

They are passed down from generation to generation and then, at some point, from generation to Internet where they will live forever alongside funny cat videos and 2 Girls, 1 Cup. It’s like the circle of life, but with scat. That being said, I think there’s no better time than now to hunker down and write my very own frightening tale. And by write, I mean type “www.WikiHow.com” into the address bar. I would be doing a disservice if I didn’t mention that my address bar auto-filled the page for WikiHow: To Get Down From a Bad High (long story, short: Molly from Manhattan is NOT your friend).

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Ladyfingers: An ode to Jim Philips

By : Sabrina Ambra
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Mind if we take a drive down “Let Me Get Real With Ya” Boulevard real quick? Sometimes I find myself scrambling for topics when it’s time for me to write my next Ladyfingers entry (#giggidy).

I’m an expert in over analyzation, procrastination, and self-deprecation. Am I an artist? Debatable. Did I miss my deadline? Absolutely. However, instead of my “occasional” scrambling (I’m sorry; I love you; thank you for your patience), I’m a day late for a completely different reason. As a matter of fact, this time I had no doubt in what, or in this case, who I wanted to write about: Jim Philips.

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