Important philosophical question: Do I eat Pop Tarts because I hate myself? Or do I hate myself because I eat Pop Tarts?
My therapist is sick and had to reschedule tonight’s session. (Or she actually hates me and just can’t even with my bullshit today so she’s playing hooky. Hard to say.)
Either way, I’m home eating Pop Tarts and drinking wine instead, which…kinda feels the same as therapy, but with less talking of feelings, more eating of feelings.
Why don’t I do this every week? It’s a fuck of a lot cheaper and I don’t have to think about a damn thing except how delicious Pop Tarts are.
Coming soon: Dr. Kellogg’s patented (frosted!) therapeutic process for basic white girl problems (TM).