Here lies Smug Singleton: She died of cramps, which is totally a thing that can happen.
Don’t send flowers, flowers are bullshit. You spend that money on fried cheese and whiskey. That’s what she would’ve wanted. (YES, fried cheese and whiskey at 10 a.m. Christ almighty, do you want to honor her or not?)
Rest in petty, Smug.
I find it rude that my body-image-issue days are so often accompanied by cravings for fried cheese.
“I am a giant, unlovable hambeast. Oh, look, pierogies!”
Friend: “What do I do with all of these feelings!?”
Me: “Well, you feel them, and process them accordingly, because you’ve been trained by your Jedi Master of a therapist. *I* choke them down until I find myself identifying far too keenly with Avril Lavigne songs. And then I eat fried cheese.”