Positive Sarcasm Presents: TTYL

It's 6:30AM on a Monday, you roll off your stomach, cus you spent all weekend on your back. When you're able to get the Loreal crusties off your eyelids, the greasy cellphone which houses all of your poor decisions except for that trash can near the computer desk that also doubles as a dinner table for your high faluten Ramen noodles dish that hasn't been washed in three days...yes you're still reaching for your cell phone, cus y'know...facebook.

Like a drug, you need that hit first thing in the morning, you just have to know what Megan is saying about Todd's Saturday night Vodka bender. Who names their kid Todd anyway? Fucking Loser. You can count the likes from your last post on one hand, so you flee to Snapchat to play with one of the filters that makes you look borderline screwable. After posting a seven second video of you with dog ears, glittery eyes, squeeky voice and a frowny face cus you have to go to work in order to support your quest bar and rice cake bill that's overdue from Amazon Prime, you hit the shower (I hope) to wash off your guilt from this past weekend as you pick a wardrobe that you plan to return to Nordstrom by the end of the week after maxing out your Credit Card with an 18 percent interest rate...cus gas money.

Not paying any attention to traffic, you go live on Instagram for no fucking reason whatsoever to complain about God knows what, but when five minutes pass and nobody jumps onto your choppy stream, you angrily toss your phone onto the passenger seat that stinks of old spilled Iced Coffee, just in time to slam on your brakes in order to narrowly avoid bumper humping the White Mercedes in front of you, cus the insurance you have would only cover the damage to their car and not your 15 year old Volkswagen Jetta...Heaven forbid we damage that blocky pile of Emission cheating Nazi Shit.

Now your at work, pulling hard on the straw, trying desperately to bleed your Iced Coffee for all it's worth before needing to deal with the general public, cus y'know...customer service.

You change your profile pic to the only sober selfie you took of yourself that weekend, hoping you'll get more than 3 likes and 2 comments so you can start a dull conversation with that person you would never dream of dating, but will happily accept their compliments in order to boost your deflated self-esteem and your social media status.

It's not your break time yet, but you decide to sneak out of the office to take a phone call from your mom about some pointless bullshit that could probably wait till much later in the day...or even the year, but after being at work for just over 90 minutes, you begin to chew on your nails, as your anxiety medication begins it's cycle of side effects that oddly makes your cuticles taste like blueberry pie. You step into the elevator knowing fully well that as soon as that door closes, your overpriced Iphone will go from 4 bars to behind bars, but you stupidly attempt to hold the signal by talking louder in the elevator, ultimately annoying the piss out of it's other occupants. As the door opens to the next floor, the call drops and you attempt to call her back, but it goes to voicemail and since people apparently don't listen to their FUCKING Voicemails anymore, “The mailbox is full and cannot receive messages at this time...goodbye.” FUCK!!!

Back to work, stupid! All this early morning excitement has depleted your blood sugar levels, so you head to Starbucks for a Seven Dollar Mint Mocha Frappacino with 62 grams of sugar plus whip cream, cus the empty calories you consumed this weekend after being head-boarded obviously weren't enough to satiate your “Flexible Dieting Plan”. After sexting someone from the workplace bathroom, while taking a dump (they won't know, they're probably doing the same thing) you manage to milk the rest of the day by scrolling thru Instagram, liking every photo of Pizza and Puppies, but none of your actual friends, you just creep on their stories...cus lazy.

You hit the gym...sort of. Managing an Olympic record of 25 minutes on the elliptical so that you can get a fitness selfie out there showing off your knew leggings that you claim are Lululemon, but are in fact, cheap knockoffs where if you bend over, people can see your failures. After the stitching explodes on your “high priced” fit gear, you manage to link up with your parents after that dropped phone call earlier. They buy dinner, but insist on guilt tripping you the entire time about never having any money, however you're clearly not paying any attention to them as you peel thru your Twitter and Tumblr feed like a Corvette in the Lincoln Tunnel, saving the other hand to swipe left on Bumble. You post a selfie on your social media, “here with parents, BAF” (bored as fuck). Brandon sees your post and slides into your DM's like a snake in a bucket of KY Jelly. He's got a girlfriend, but their kinda on a break after his Roid Rage left a hole in Sarah's TV set and she hasn't texted him or tagged him on Instagram in over three days and since he's tired of punching his clown, he hopes to fire off a couple splooge rockets into your love tunnel before Sarah stupidly takes him back for the third time...Stupid Sarah.

It's now 7pm and your late to pick up Chase...your son.