This movie inspired me to throw balls at people sleeping on the metro.

My mom bought me this book when I was in middle school, presumably to teach me a pre-emptory lesson about what happens when youthful indiscretion runs wild.

All it really managed to teach me was that when you are rich and famous and thirteen, getting weed is enviably easier than it is when you’re just another suburban schlub.

After reading this book I have realized I am unready to die, on a multitude of levels.

The long-winded and rambling “observations” tacked onto the thin thematic of a journey were so painful to read through, so meandering in their thought process (an eight page diatribe on friendship littered with arcane nineteenth century poetry, anyone?) that they made me want to Thoreau this book into a campfire.

This band sounds like the evil, vice-prone alter-ego of The Cardigans.

Very tasty, but it’s amazing that the paste doesn’t just burn straight through the glass packaging.

I hated this movie the first time I went to go see it, so I went back two more times to see the other alternate endings. Somehow it managed to suck both of those times, too.

I literally consumed a Lego once, and that was not worth it.

It was a real stretch for Robert Downey Jr. to play an out-of-control junkie in this movie, but somehow he pulled it off.

This was the best movie ever made. Period.