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My stock answer as a functioning depressive is “eh, can’t complain…”
In my head continuing “…wouldn’t do either of us any good.”
I say “cant complain” at work because I’m contractually obligated not to.
Steung out on catnip, been there.
“It is what it is.”
how could anything be wrong when you’re drinking VSOP cognac and eating, squints, Japanese…? Bugles?
