I’ll only be able to write about tampons and Lifetime movies.

Well, thank heaven for this distinction. I’d hate to sully your manly journals with my silly lady thoughts.

You might want to think about emblazoning a dick and balls right on the front cover, just to be 100% safe.

I’m surprised they even allow the idea that men could write in a journal. But y’all definitely write only about MANLY things — sports, cars, power tools, World War II, The Shawshank Redemption, and barbecue.

“Next thing ya know, Shorty got low, low, low, low…”

“Hey, Brain? I’m not sure what’s happening here, but… You realize shopping online for things you don’t need with money you don’t have isn’t going to make you feel better, right?”

“Are you sure? Because I REALLY feel like it might.”

Feeling your feelings BLOWS.

Post-therapy-by-phone text to friends.

I might leave work early and pick up some more bonus therapy by way whiskey. And fried cheese. That’s probably what she really meant by “journaling.”

I’m having feelings. I don’t care for it.

Y’all, I may be dead inside and stuck in heinous rush hour traffic, but even *I* can’t keep this dipshit look off my face listenting to Michelle Obama recount her early courtship with Barack. JESUS, people, I’m not made of wood. This shit is cuter than a Hallmark movie about kittens wearing tiny sweaters. COME ON. #IAMBECOMING