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PMS. I haz it.

And then some. My ample (bahahahahaha, "ample"—gargantuan is more like it) bosom is threatening to run away from my chest wall if my hormones do not stop their onslaught. I'm on the very. Verge. Of. Tears. Right. Now. And all other moments. My skin has decided to be a 4th grader at her science fair and recreate the goddamn craters on the moon. The husband is making me sad, the kids are making me sad, me is making me sad, the possible THIRD WAR in a decade is making me sad, alas—sad is not all I can be. I also, apparently, have diarrhea of the mouth concerning my deepest darkest Iwouldnevereverusuallyever say out loud thoughts. Were you aware that you can add "woe be gone bitch" to polite conversation thereby turning said conversation impolite? Whelp, you can.


My work sucks large donkey dick that is actually horse sized but donkeys are less majestic therefore more degrading. My job is degrading. I am under utilized, under appreciated, and unfulfilled. So maybe my job sucks mouse dick? As I'm unfulfilled? huzzzahhh. blergh. sad.

ETA; why IN THE FUCK am I still, still a gray commentator on the main page when I (along with several others) was an original poster to GT Kinja? FFS, something new to be sad about. Off to r/morbidreality for me.

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