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Let me tell you about my friend Monica and her texting habits. You know that feeling when you see three dots on your screen, indicating someone is typing, and you're just waiting for a profound message? Well, with Monica, it's like waiting for a snail to finish a marathon. I sent her a text last week asking if she wanted to grab coffee, and I'm still waiting for a response. It's like her phone has a "Reply Tomorrow" feature that she accidentally activated. I wouldn't be surprised if I get a reply next year, and it's something like, "Coffee sounds good. Where?"
Monica, if you're out there, it's 2023! Embrace the speed of technology. By the time you reply, I'll have aged a year and switched to decaf.
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Let's talk about Monica's approach to fitness. She's always on some new health kick, and I have to say, her dedication is impressive. I mean, she's mastered the art of buying workout clothes and taking mirror selfies at the gym. But when it comes to actually breaking a sweat, that's where things get a bit shaky. She invited me to join her for a workout session, and I agreed, thinking it would be a great way to burn off some calories and maybe even gain a six-pack. Well, it turns out the only six-pack we gained that day was from the post-workout beers we had to console ourselves.
Monica, if you want to get fit, maybe focus less on the gym selfies and more on the actual workout. Because right now, the only thing you're lifting is my skepticism.
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You guys ever have that one friend who thinks they're a gourmet chef, but every time they invite you over for dinner, you start mentally preparing your apology speech to your taste buds? Yeah, that's my friend Monica. I mean, she watches the Food Network religiously, but when it comes to her own kitchen, it's like a culinary crime scene. Last week, she invited me over for dinner, and she proudly served me a dish that looked like it had been rescued from a dumpster behind a fast-food joint. I asked her what it was, and she said, "It's an avant-garde fusion of flavors." Avant-garde? It tasted more like a collision of confusion in my mouth. I didn't know whether to eat it or file an insurance claim.
I swear, her cooking is so bad, even the smoke detector cheers when I leave her kitchen. Monica, if you're listening, please stick to ordering takeout. I can't handle any more experimental dishes that make me question my life choices.
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Have you ever been to a party where you walk in, and it feels like you've entered the Bermuda Triangle of fun? That's what happens when Monica plans a party. She's got the enthusiasm of a cheerleader, but her execution is more like a referee trying to break up a fight between two teams that hate each other. Last month, she threw a birthday bash, and I swear, it was like attending a social experiment on how to make an introvert even more introverted. The decorations looked like they had been salvaged from a garage sale, and the playlist was a mix of elevator music and sea shanties. I felt like I was trapped in a sitcom where the laugh track had taken a vacation.
Monica, if you're planning another party, do us all a favor and hire a professional. I can't handle another celebration that feels like a wake.
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