So… Apparently, “In the same way that everyone else does” is not the right thing to say when the doctor asks if you ever think about hurting yourself.
“We live in a world of rice made from chickpeas. The sky is the limit.”
I’m so tired of being poor and unimportant.
“I could be so much better if I could only bring myself to care.”
“He’s out there living his life, and I’m over here stress-eating jicama.”
I wish you a journey of yellow lights with a bored, smalltown cop riding behind you the entire time. I wish you lactose sensitivities and a gluten allergy at a restaurant that says they have a full gluten-sensitive menu but really only serves two salads. I hope that one of them is your all-time favorite salad and that while you’re enjoying it, a delicious bite goes down the wrong pipe and causes your life to flash before your eyes. I hope that someone in the room learned CPR about three years ago and saves your life, but also cracks a few ribs in the process. The therapist said that I’m not supposed to waste my time wishing you ill so instead, I wish you regularly inconvenienced.
Oh! Hey. It’s been a minute…
How many of these cardio classes do I have to endure before my depression is cured?
“Oh, did you have a cheat meal?”
Nope, I was eating my feelings. Loyalty had nothing to do with it.
I once asked my dad why he backed into parking spots when we went to church. He kept his eyes forward as we walked from the back of the parking lot to the church’s front door. “Quicker exit,” he said, and I think about this as I pull into the parking lot at work and watch the side mirrors as I back myself into a corner spot.