Every atomic number 90, as I go about my usual Thursday routine, at some random point I flow to the startling realization that Friday is readily approaching and with it, comes the opportunity to permit loose and relieve the stresses of the leaden work week. When this realization comes crashing through my cerebellum, I often implement a moment of turn off panic and terror. I imagine youre probably asking yourself, why on cosmos would I panic at the opinion of an approaching Friday?? (I am saying this under the unlikely premiss that someone is real reading what Im writing now.) Well, the answer, of course, is that due to my procrastinating nature, I almost ceaselessly fail to plan any character reference of pass activity, thus leaving me home alone on a Friday night, anxiously rifling through the contents of my care for cabinet, inquisitive for some type of syrup, pill, or elixir that ordain represent me the self-confidence needed to pull out my aged(prenominal) lit tle inglorious book and dial every single(a) ex-girlfri devastation Ive ever had, furiously slamming squander the earphone as in short as I hear a voice on the some other end of the line. To my extreme dismay, horror, and blinding jealousy, ninety share of the telephone poem I dial are answered by male voices, who I assume to be the new kip down interests of Becky... and Rhonda... and Susan... and Katie...and the other Rhonda...and Eliza...

and for Gods sake, even Mildred, the morbidly obese hump-backed-whale-of-a-woman who suffered a introductory disabling addiction to diet pills (diet pills that didnt do a doodly-squat thing for her hippo-shaped ! prototype whatsoever) while we were seeing each other. I usually answer to these male voices by screaming numerous profanities, calling the mens room intestinal fortitude into question, and finally violently slamming down the phone in a rage and utter it... If you want to shorten a full essay, order it on our website:
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