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I've reached that age where I get excited about canceled plans. It's not that I don't want to see people, it's just that the anticipation of social interaction creates a level of dread that only a last-minute cancellation can cure. Ah, sweet relief.
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Why is it that the closer we get to Monday, the louder our alarm clocks become? It's like they know we're dreading the week so much that they decide to add insult to injury by sounding like a marching band on a Monday morning.
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Do you ever look at your phone and see a missed call from your mom and immediately think, "What did I do now?" It's not that we're guilty, it's just that maternal dread is a universal constant, like gravity or bad Wi-Fi.
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Dreading a Monday morning is a universal experience. It's like we all collectively decide that we need at least two more Sundays in our weekend. If I had a dollar for every time I hit the snooze button on a Monday, I could probably afford to hire someone to face Mondays for me.
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You know you're an adult when you start dreading your mailbox more than your inbox. I used to look forward to getting letters, now I open the mailbox like I'm defusing a bomb – expecting bills instead of a love letter.
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I've noticed that grocery shopping is the only activity where I can experience both joy and dread simultaneously. Joy when I find a sale on ice cream, and dread when I realize I forgot my reusable bags at home. Environmental guilt, aisle 7.
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Why is it that when someone says, "We need to talk about your future," you feel like you're about to receive a lecture from a time-traveling version of yourself? "Listen up, past me, invest in Bitcoin and learn to do your taxes properly.
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I've come to the conclusion that adulting is just a series of looking forward to things, then dreading them once they arrive. "Can't wait for the weekend!" becomes "I can't believe it's Monday already" faster than you can say, "Is it Friday yet?
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Let's talk about assembling furniture. You start with enthusiasm, but as soon as you open the instruction manual, a wave of dread washes over you. It's like trying to decipher ancient hieroglyphics. "Step 1: Connect the gizmo to the thingamajig." I just want a bookshelf, not a PhD in engineering.
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