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Let's talk about small talk. You know, the socially acceptable way to avoid awkward silence. We've all been there, forced into a conversation about the weather or weekend plans just to fill the void. Someone asked me the other day, "What do you do for a living?" and I panicked. I mean, what do I say? "I'm doin' my best not to mess up this conversation"? Instead, I went with the classic, "I work in an office." Wow, groundbreaking, right?
And then there's the elevator small talk. It's a race against time to say something before the doors open. "Nice weather we're havin'." "Yep, it sure is weather." It's like a script we're all following to survive the 30-second ride.
But the pinnacle of small talk has to be the doctor's office. You're sitting there, trying not to catch someone's eye, and then they hit you with, "So, what brings you here today?" Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that I scheduled an appointment? It's like they're expecting me to reveal my deepest, darkest secrets.
Can we just agree to replace small talk with a collective nod and acknowledgment of the mutual discomfort? "I see you, fellow human. Let's spare each other the agony of discussing the weather and just silently appreciate the existence of elevators.
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Who here goes to the gym? Yeah, me neither. But for those brave souls who do, can we talk about the lingo they use? "I'm doin' deadlifts, doin' squats, doin' burpees." It's like a secret code only the fitness cult understands. I tried joining a gym once, and the instructor was like, "We're gonna do some planks today." I thought, "Okay, planks, like the things pirates walk off. I got this." Little did I know, my abs were about to stage a rebellion.
And then there's the treadmill. The most deceiving machine in the gym. It's like a hamster wheel, but instead of running towards freedom, you're running towards a salad you don't really want. I swear, the treadmill knows when you're struggling. It's like, "Oh, you want to slow down? Let me just increase the incline and speed. Enjoy!"
But the worst part is the gym mirrors. They're like a funhouse mirror that turns your flabby self-esteem into a shredded superhero. I look in the mirror and think, "Is that a six-pack or just wishful thinking?" Spoiler: It's wishful thinking.
So, to everyone out there doin' the gym, I applaud you. Just know that some of us are doin' the couch, and that's a workout of its own.
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You ever notice how people use the word "doin'" to make the impossible sound casual? Like, "I'm doin' my taxes" or "I'm doin' my laundry." I mean, come on, let's be real here. Taxes are like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube blindfolded, and laundry is a never-ending quest to find that missing sock. I tried doing my taxes once, and I swear, the IRS has a secret mission to make everyone believe they're secret agents with all those confusing forms. I called them up and said, "Hey, can you simplify this for me?" They were like, "Sure, just fill out forms A, B, C, D, E, F, G..." I was like, "Hold on, I thought this was supposed to be simple. I feel like I'm decoding the Matrix here."
And laundry? Don't even get me started. The laundry basket is like a black hole that eats all my socks. I put two socks in, and somehow, only one makes it out. I'm convinced there's a sock paradise somewhere, and they're all sipping coconut drinks, laughing at us humans with mismatched socks.
So, when someone says they're "doin'" their taxes or laundry, just know they're embarking on a heroic journey, fighting battles we can't even comprehend. Maybe we should start giving out medals for adulting achievements. "Congratulations, you successfully did your taxes without crying. Here's your gold star!
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Let's talk about math for a moment. You know, the universal language that makes us all feel dumb at some point. The other day, someone asked me to split a bill, and I was like, "Sure, let me just do some quick math." Spoiler alert: It was not quick, and it was definitely not math. I took out my phone calculator, and suddenly, I felt like I was on a high-stakes game show. The pressure was on. I'm typing in numbers, deleting, retyping, and the waiter is just standing there, probably thinking, "Are they calculating the trajectory to Mars or splitting a lunch bill?"
And then there's that moment when you realize you forgot to add tax and tip. It's like discovering a plot twist in a thriller movie. "Wait, there's more?" Now you're frantically recalculating, praying you didn't just bankrupt yourself over a salad and a soda.
Can we please have a math class that teaches us how to split bills in real life? I don't need to know the square root of pi, but I do need to figure out how to divide a pizza bill between three friends who each had a different number of slices. It's a math problem even Einstein would be scratching his head over.
So, next time someone asks me to split a bill, I'm just gonna say, "Let's hire an accountant. It'll be cheaper than therapy after this math trauma.
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