Fighting the Miserable, Tasteless Tofu of My Motivation

Chickens unfucked. Er…chickens lovingly cared for by earnest postmodern farmer grrl?

My actual chicken’s actual bitchface. That there behind her is an empty jar of mealworms. OH SNAP.

I emptied the dishwasher and put more dishes in. It is eternal, neverending, Xeno’s Dishadox: you can never truly arrive at 100% clean dishes, only approach it in increasingly small increments.

But I don’t want to do anything else. IT’S SO GREY OUTSIDE YOU GUYS. GREY LIKE MY SOUL.

I don’t want to put up towel racks or write or eat or brush the cat. I WANT TO WOE.

I was doing so well yesterday. That means I don’t have to do shit today, right? Bluuuuuuh. SO MUCH MUD OUTSIDE. SO MUCH COLD.

Four hours before I have to leave. Get up, Trinity. Go to your office.

Don’t wanna. I’m going. Don’t wanna. I’m going.

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