Howard Johnson- Stand Up (1985)

I hate when I stand up after sitting with someone for a while, and they say something about how they didn't realize I was so tiny. It's like, do you not realize you've been speaking to the top of my head the entire time?

May Day- It Makes Me Mad (1985)

Juvenile "comedy" magazines like 'Mad' and 'Cracked' take me much longer to read than their intellectual counterparts, mainly due to unusual time I spend discerning whether each advertisement is real, or just a terribly-done parody.

The Time- 777-9311 (1982)

There used to be these parties that I went to every few months. They were in a basement of a Jamaican restaurant, and some of my favorite friends would DJ, and they were always the best time ever. That is, minus the fact that the tiny, hobbit-like bartender had a real thing for me. Now, people often mention a certain "Napoleon complex" that infects many guys of smaller stature, but what they don't often discuss is their aggressive tendencies when they meet a smaller lady. It's like they feel like it's their last chance at love or something.
Like it's genetically meant-to-be.
Point is, this dude was always very feisty when it came to trying to trick me into dating him. One evening, I thought I had evaded him entirely, when out of the shadows he rose, cell-phone in hand. "What's your digits?", he asked me, and I rattled off some fake number. He proceeded to dial it right in front of my face. "Nope", he said, "I know that's not your number". I was in a real bind, so I just gave him the next number I could think of: 777-9311. This time, he didn't even bother dialing. We stared in silence for a moment. "Ah", I said, "I see you are familiar with the works of Morris Day and The Time", and walked away.

Womack & Womack- Baby I'm Scared Of You (1983)

The thing about Halloween up in Canada is, it's tough for people to be scared of you when you are wearing a North Face jacket and have a terrible head cold.

Funkmasters- Have You Got The Time? (1984)

Be honest, have you got the time to wade through racks and racks of poorly sewn costumes this year? When seeking the answer for the perfect Halloween get-up, here's a hint that might save you a few precious minutes: the solution lies nowhere near morphsuit section.
A good costume is only pretend scary.

Klique- Inside Me (1983)

I don't know much about what lies beneath my skin, but I do know there's a bunch of pink stuff. You know, like guts, blood, and years and years of all of the Dubble Bubble I've swallowed.

Bunny DeBarge- Save The Best For Me (1986)

Though I have had some errors in judgement over the years, I can take true solace in the fact that I will never be crowned the queen of bad decisions as long as there are DeBarges left in the world.

Fat Larry's Band- Don't Let It Go To Your Head (1983)

I silently praise myself every time I get a raise at work or get myself some RRSPs or do something else that makes me feel like a for-real adult, but I shouldn't let it go to my head; I'm the same girl that hoards boxes of Lucky Charms for Saturday morning so I can throw out all the cereal pieces and have a total marshmallow-and-cartoon party. 

Sharon Redd- Love How You Feel (1983)

I tend to be a person that absorbs the feelings of others, like how I feel sad when I walk past a funeral, or the time on Boxing Day in eighth grade when I bought Mary J Blige's second album and spent a few weeks in a deep vicarious depression, wherein I was vicariously terrified that vicarious Jodeci was going to break up because of my vicarious drug problem.

Cashmere- Keep Me Up (1984)

My ultimate goal for my future, growing up, was to get myself to a financial point where I had an outdoor pool and somewhere warm enough to enjoy it. Also, to be able to surround myself in furs and cashmere and silk and buttery leathers. Everywhere.
Those who can afford the true softness of someone other creature's trimmings are far classier and better than the rest of us, obviously, and I'm over here, 30 years old and still in cotton like I just crawled out of a dumpster or something. I don't have "fur money". The only fur I ever owned was a small vintage collar made of rabbit, or perhaps squirrel, and it gave me a rash, shed fur like crazy, and disintegrated in a single evening. The last strip of the collar shed off into the slushy street and was run over by a taxi. "That", I said to myself, "is why rich people always seem so happy".