The problems with my stomach have become worse.

You know, it’s bad enough I’m having problems, but why does God make it necessary to give me an added bonus of problems when I’m trying to go grocery shopping with my husband? To make it all even more magical, let’s just sprinkle in the irrational fear I have of public restrooms. Makes for an intense drive home, with me sweating bullets, trying to make light of my problems with a husband who is less than impressed with me.

I feel like when I was born, or being created, God just gave me the middle finger and said, “Good luck, bitch!” 
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Tomorrow a chick is coming to pick up a sugar glider that she purchased from me. I wish them the best.

Right now, I’m on the couch wishing my life wasn’t so crappy.

Word.
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