During some “rehab” sessions, I’ve heard all too often “I’m bipolar!”—to which my response was always yeah, my fucking goldfish is bipolar. Grow up and get a real problem.
This isn’t to slight anyone with true psychomed issues; but there are a lot of folks on board the gravy train.
(Does gravy need a train? Does it clog up? Why not an aircraft, you know, a Gravy Plane? Or a Gravy Blimp? After all, gravy does not burn. Does that make sense?)
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