Anxiety is crying yourself to sleep because you just KNOW the house will burn and your father will die trying to save all of you.
Anxiety looks like my hands. Chaotic. Messy. Sort of gross, if we’re being honest.
I’m falling behind in a very specific way that is available for everyone to witness.
Date someone who doesn’t care if you double text. Triple text. Quadruple text. Someone who would love to hear from you fifty times per day, because you’re his favorite person in the world.
Instead, call me curious. Passionate. Call me kind. Call me feisty or intelligent.
You’ve officially been assigned into the Cute Girl Category. We know you applied for the Sexy Category, but after a panel of qualified straight men examined your portfolio and read your personal statement, we decided that you definitely have more potential to be Cute rather than Sexy.
At least I’m a cute bitch. I have that going for me.
To kick it off, we’ll go around in a circle and say our names, professions, and the inevitable numerical ranking out of 10 you once overheard a guy describe you as to his friend, even though you literally just met him 20 seconds ago at the bar.