Beave Skeets

Taught one engineer how to hyperlink in Word and now I’m the messiah of the entire Engineering department.

Me running to grab snacks before the edible kicks in and I forget how to walk.

Remember when people just lived their lives instead of fighting on the internet? Good times.

I’m so tired of the internet but it’s my emotional support hellhole.

Eternal damnation is reserved for people who ruin jokes online.

I’d seriously prefer that people post some half-assed original skeet than post a skeet that’s only one word different than someone else’s skeet. C’mon buttholes.

Hey.

Someone at work asked if I’m a sociopath and I’ve never felt more accomplished.

My prayers mostly consist of me asking my brain to not think of any more funny skeets while I’m trying to sleep.

Adulthood is mostly peeing preemptively to avoid future inconvenience.

Anxiety is feeling like you’re having a heart attack. Depression is rolling over and going to sleep anyway.

Big weekend plans: pulling my one ripe watermelon. Can’t stop thinking about it.

The past tense of scream should be scrumpt.

Sometimes I wonder if my hilarity is wasted on you people.

I’ve come to accept that I do not understand grammar and punctuation and I’m fine with that.

Oops I did it again: got way too high on a work night.

Spent my whole workday trying to make clam chowder a metaphor for vaginal discharge, and I think it’s probably time to log off forever.

Boss: you seem well-rested. Me: thanks, I screamed myself to sleep last night.

Started as a girl with a garden. Ended as a tomatho.

My winter bush is barely grown in and hikers have already left offerings at the entrance.

Dopamine straight from the vine.

My backyard is being an atmospheric masterpiece tonight.

Whoever greenlit that Netflix high school catfish documentary owes me therapy money.