Workshopping some jokes in case I go the Midge Maisel route post-divorce and become a comedian. Starting with, “I often catch myself thinking, ‘I can’t wait until this greasy orange thing is out of my house,’ in reference to both the president and my ex’s cat.”
What, and I can’t stress this enough, THE FUCK are we doing.
I’m in an abusive relationship with the Domino’s on Taylorsville.
The only reason I would want to see Hulk Hogan is because I’m watching Muppets From Space.
The cats are really enjoying the spoils of Christmas: they’re high af on catnip and watching the automatic litter box.
I knew you would be in the replies! (It is very good, however I am forced to watch it each year as if it may have changed at some point in the past seventy something years.)
In other news, water is wet.
I’m beginning to believe that I attract spiders.
They send a text for me to respond to them with the photo. I don't get the message. Y’ALL, THEY TEXTED MY WORK’S LOUISVILLE BRANCH NUMBER. FOR A PICTURE OF MY "RASH.”
While making the “rash” appointment, I noticed that somehow my primary phone number was updated to one of the numbers my job uses. I thought I fixed it, but when the doctor called they were like, "I don't see the picture you attached to the appointment. Can you text it to me?"
Christening this app with one of the more embarrassing things that has happened to me: at some point during this hell week, a spider bit me. I did not have time to go anywhere so I decided to do telehealth through my insurance. However, the closest thing I could pick to be called about was “rash.”
I was plotting my migration but after this week from hell I needed to be forced into it.
