Sophie Pollitt-Cohen's angry narrator, best known for her rants in pieces "God Tells Me Things," "What I learned Running The Marathon," and a lot of other things Sophie Pollitt-Cohen didn't even think were fit to be written for free, died this week. She was crushed to death by the chip on her shoulder. She was ninety-five in Huffington Post years.
After graduating from a small liberal arts college in New England, where she maintains she was the hottest girl to ever graduate (congrats, kind of), Sophie Pollitt-Cohen's angry narrator settled into a life of getting manicures, putting splenda in things, and being obsessed with people who don't even like her. Some of her favorite activities included working out, crying during and after eating, and unintentionally revealing personal information while supposedly talking about something else.
"She was always fun to go out with," said one of the members of her Zog Sports dodgeball team. "Until the end of the night. I have never seen someone cry so hard after having a guy ignore her drunk texts. And how did she even get my dad's phone number?"
"She was always fun to hang out with," said one of her cats. "Until the end of the night. Then she would start yelling at me about how unfair it is that I can be happy and fat, and could I just help her open up the bag of Smart Food popcorn? How many times can you explain to someone that cats don't have opposable thumbs?"
She is survived by her ex boyfriends, the women they cheated on her with, and the bartenders at The Gin Mill and Brother Jimmy's. She has chosen not to be cremated, but buried with the stories about her deep in the comedy page.
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