"This is random, but I have two packets of Gorgonzola that don't expire until December, do you want them? I'm not allowed to eat them and I hate wasting food."
I mean really, what is the question? Blue cheese gnocchi for dinner, Internet! AND yesterday I got paid a whole day early. As much fun as making a euro last 7 days was YOU'D BEST BELIEVE I'M HEADING OUT THE DOOR EARLY TODAY because I've got me some chocolate brownies to buy. Today falls under the category of AMAZEBALLS and I'm not even dressed yet. I love it when that happens.
Also: this whole food obsession thing is clearly getting ridiculous now.
I think it is because my diet is the same EVERY SINGLE DAY, because I don't like to think too hard, because my creativity is mostly limited to the application of the word fuck as noun, adjective, verb, adverb, possessive adjective, agent noun, noun phrase... etcetera. And yes, that's a skill I list on LinkedIn. No, my father does not approve. Yes, I am somewhat mildly sorry depending on what mood he catches me in.
Related: the worse my language becomes, the harder it is to define What Is Appropriate. Presuming, obviously, that the words cock-sucking whore-faced twunt can ever be appropriate.
What? You've never had your ex marry your best friend? THEN YOU JUST WON'T GET IT.
To express anger and frustration and confusion on a daily basis in a more professional environment it has become entirely necessary to sing it out. TRY IT. Can't find the book you are looking for? Make it into a tune! "And I still, haven't found, what I'm looking foooorrrrr....." A child just worriedly approached you in class to explain that he really needs to make a poop but normally, when there isn't a bidet, his mum wipes for him and so what should he do? You can tell you colleagues through the medium of melody: "Aaaaaannd he-he-he-he just asked meeeee, to do! Things! I! Wouldn't! Even! Do! For! My! Dying! Motherrrrrrrrr!"
Warning: extreme song-interpretation can become addictive. Use in moderation.
HEY! INTERNET! Quick question: Do you ever feel like somebody is sat at home in pajamas in their freezing Roman apartment, crackpot-head high on the thought of a chilled San Pelligrino with lunch and so writing run-on sentences as long as full paragraphs as a way to express said excitement in their pathetic, ill-prioritised life whereby pooping kids and naughty words are paramount and they must narcissistically express this to everyone with WiFi?
I mean, totally hypothetically. Of course.
I'm a little excited about lunch.
AS YOU WERE.