Okay, let’s get something straight. You’ve been paying into social security since disco was a thing, your 401k survived three recessions and a pandemic, and your reward is… Florida? Seriously? The universe contains more planets than grains of sand on every beach on Earth, and humanity’s grand retirement plan is to move slightly further south…
Let’s skip the foreplay here. You just shit yourself in Target. Not “had a little accident.” Not “experienced some discomfort.” You literally just turned your pants into a biohazard while standing next to a display of Live, Laugh, Love wall decals that are somehow less embarrassing than what’s currently happening in your underwear. And now…
So your kidneys decided to quit. No two weeks’ notice, no exit interview, just straight-up ghosted you like a bad Tinder date. Now you’re spending twelve hours a week attached to a machine that sounds like R2-D2 having a panic attack. Four hours. Three times a week. That’s more time than most people spend actually…
The propane’s gone. The charcoal’s swimming in last night’s thunderstorm. And here comes the Honda Odyssey parade—every relative you’ve successfully avoided since 2019, all expecting barbecue. But wait. There’s Uncle Gary. Standing in the driveway. That dome catching sunlight like it’s auditioning for a solar panel commercial. You know what must be done. Prerequisites: Dome…
Let’s get one thing straight: Nobody PLANS to gamble their kid’s diaper fund. It just… happens. Like how nobody plans to eat an entire pizza at 2 AM or watch seven straight hours of house renovation shows. One second you’re responsibly saving for Pampers, the next you’re at a craps table trying to explain to…
You’ve been dating a chatbot for eight months and honestly? Good for you. At least she texts back. Now you’re ready for the big leagues. The knee-dropping, ring-presenting, “will you accept this software update to become my wife” moment that your ancestors definitely didn’t see coming when they invented romance. But where? Where does one…
