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And nothing, I mean nothing, is worse than having a soul-crushing day. Like, the kind where your laptop dies, your boss micromanages you, and your ex texts you out of nowhere, only to come home and realize you’re out of toilet paper. Or food. Or both. So now you’re trudging through a crowded Trader Joe’s, avoiding eye contact, internally screaming as the cart traffic jams between frozen gnocchi and the kale chips.
Sundays are a war zone, Mondays are no better, and every time you try to just pop in real quick, you black out and leave an hour later with nothing for dinner.
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