You sound really macho on the phone.
You can put in an unproductive day at work and people will thank you just for coming in.
Seven words: Double Quarter Pounder With Cheese Meal, Please. And in your sicky state of mind you can honestly convince yourself that your fever will burn off the excess calories and fat.
You are all but expected to knock yourself unconscious each night with the drugs typically found in a rural meth lab.
You have newfound empathy for the chronically ill and the underinsured. Unless you’re too busy saving the world from the horrors of gay marriage.
You get to talk about the color of your snot with the nice lady at the doctor’s office. And if you’re lucky, you get to show her your butt. (Don’t believe her about the “little pinch” though.)
Since you know you won’t be making out with any supermodels (even if they ask, which they never do, the bitches) you don’t have to waste your time doing any of those little grooming “extras” like shaving your knuckles. Or wearing fancy underpants. Or brushing your teeth. Or putting on deodorant. Or letting your scabs heal.
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