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My car's navigation system has this passive-aggressive tone. It's like, "In 500 feet, turn right. Not that you’d know where you’re going, but go ahead, give it a shot." Thanks, GPS, for always boosting my confidence.
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I’ve come to the realization that my bed is a lot like a black hole. Once I sink into it, time and all responsibilities seem to disappear. If productivity had a mortal enemy, it would be my comfy mattress.
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Grocery shopping is the only place where you get to judge people based on their cart contents. I’m just here with my kale and quinoa, silently judging the person in front of me with three types of frozen pizza and a family-sized bag of chips. It's like a nutritional reality show.
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My refrigerator is like a time capsule of good intentions. I open it, and there’s the salad I thought about making last week, now looking like a science experiment. It's less of a fridge and more of a guilt chamber.
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There should be a support group for people who start a diet on Monday and then celebrate surviving until Tuesday with a tub of ice cream. We can call it "Dieters Anonymous: One Day at a Time.
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Why is it that the most important thoughts only come to you in the shower? I have solved world problems and crafted award-winning speeches in there, but the moment I step out, it’s like my brain goes on a coffee break.
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I bought a fitness tracker, and now it's guilt-tripping me. It's like having a tiny, judgmental coach on my wrist. "Oh, you're only at 2,000 steps today? Did you get lost on your way to the fridge again?
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You ever notice how your phone has become the modern-day oracle? I mean, forget crystal balls, just ask Siri for the meaning of life. Although, her answers are about as cryptic as a fortune cookie with an attitude.
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Why do they call it "rush hour" when you're not moving? It should be called "standstill and contemplate your life choices hour." Traffic jams are where dreams go to die.
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