Whack-a-mole, that’s what it is.
The second I get one catastrophe taken care of, boing, up pops another. Bigger. Meaner. And more destructive. This is monotonous, ladies and gentlemen. My arms are tired from the whacking and pounding. I need a break.
Remember that second part-time job I got? The one that means I can eat twice a day now? Well, guess what. Rumor has it they’re going to close the office. Gah! Why do I even get out of bed in the morning, right? There’s one very simple, very compelling reason: to escape the screeching and snapping and splintering from my upstairs neighbor and her long-suffering recliner.
Oy. Shoot me now. I’m begging you.
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