When I was five or so, and thunder wasn't yet one of my favorite things, my mom told me it was just God rearranging his furniture. Other times she told me he was bowling. I knew this was bunkum because I didn't believe anyone named "God" would participate in such mundane activities. I did believe her, though, when she told me that, despite her tiny size, she used to be a lady wrestler, and her opponents were dinosaurs. And I believed her when she said she won, because there was no way T-Rex could have with those tiny, tiny arms.
Someone, please, post a photo of a flopped soufflé, reveal you wear a toupee, admit you're not really working on a screenplay. Confess to being alone on a Saturday night, licking an ice cream bowl clean, or that when you're out you often daydream about being at home licking an ice cream bowl clean. Whisper that you hate your girlfriend's yoga obsession, your husband's crappy guitar-playing, that you sometimes want to shake a baby. Tell me rainbows annoy you, you love when people's basements get flooded, and you roll your eyes at people who Purell their hands on the subway.