There’s a bottle of ranch in your fridge right now that expired during the Trump administration. The first one. You’re gonna eat it. This is not a judgment. This is a fact. Because at 11:47 PM next Tuesday, you’ll be standing there in your questionable pajamas, fridge door wide open (RIP your electric bill), and…
You’re standing in your garage, staring at that treadmill you bought during your “new year, new me” phase (still wearing the plastic wrap like some kind of exercise museum exhibit), when your brain produces the absolute worst business idea since someone decided to market Crystal Pepsi. Don’t. Seriously. Don’t even finish that thought. Everyone’s scrambling…
Your stepkid got caught shoving $47 worth of Pokemon cards down their cargo shorts. At Target. Again. The security guard brought you coffee. In his personal mug. The one with his granddaughter’s kindergarten photo on it. You know her favorite color is purple and she wants to be a dinosaur when she grows up. Paul…
So you’re there in that paper gown that’s basically tissue paper cosplaying as clothing, trying to pretend this is all totally normal and not at all like being abducted by extremely polite aliens who work in a beige office building. Everything’s fine. Standard Tuesday stuff. Except your technician just held up the speculum and whispered…
Picture this: You’re perched on that examination table, ass half-hanging off the edge, paper crinkling like you’re a poorly wrapped burrito. The nurse walks in holding something that looks like it was rejected from the prop department of Game of Thrones for being “too threatening.” “Just a little prick.” Sure, Janet. And the Titanic had…
Okay so you just had an abortion and now you’re googling what to eat because apparently that’s a thing people google. The medical pamphlet suggested crackers and clear liquids like you’re recovering from food poisoning in a Victorian novel. Absolutely not. Your uterus just did the biological equivalent of Marie Kondo-ing itself and it deserves…
