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Why do we always feel the need to press the elevator button multiple times, as if it's going to speed things up? It's like, "Come on, elevator, I've got places to be!" As if the elevator suddenly realizes it's on a tight schedule and needs to prioritize your floor because you were so persistent with the button.
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You ever notice how the Wi-Fi signal at home is like a cat playing hide and seek? One moment it's strong and right there, and the next moment it's disappeared, leaving you wandering around the house like a detective trying to solve the case of the missing internet.
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You ever notice how the amount of ice left in the office freezer is directly proportional to the level of passive-aggressiveness among colleagues? It's like a frozen battleground where everyone's trying to claim their territory, one ice cube at a time. "Oh, Karen took the last bit of ice again? Looks like we're having a cold war in the breakroom.
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You ever notice how the last person to understand a group joke is always the one laughing the hardest? It's like they're on a delayed comedy wavelength. By the time they get it, the rest of us are already onto the next topic, and they're left in a fit of laughter like, "Hey guys, wait up! I just got the 'knock-knock' joke from five minutes ago!
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You ever notice how the checkout lane at the grocery store is the only place where small talk is universally accepted? You could be in complete silence while shopping, but the moment you hit that conveyor belt, it's like entering a social contract to discuss the weather and pretend to care about each other's weekend plans.
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Why is it that the faster the elevator door closes, the more you feel like you've just narrowly escaped a potential disaster? It's like our brains are convinced that if we don't make it through those closing doors in time, we're stuck in a parallel universe where everyone else is going to cooler parties.
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Why is it that when someone says, "I'll be ready in five minutes," we automatically multiply that by a factor of three in our minds? It's like our internal clock knows that "five minutes" is just a polite way of saying, "I haven't even started getting ready yet.
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Ever notice how we always apologize to inanimate objects when we accidentally bump into them? Like, "Oops, sorry, door!" It's as if we believe our furniture has feelings, and a simple apology will prevent our coffee table from plotting revenge against our shins.
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Why is it that we trust a restaurant with our entire evening when they can't even get the salt and pepper shakers to match? I mean, if they can't handle the basics of table aesthetics, how am I supposed to trust them with my complicated order? "Yeah, I'll have the spaghetti, but hold the mismatched shakers, please.
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