I use humor to cope, then overthink the joke.

I’m not late. Time is just subjective.

I only run if something’s on fire—or on sale.

My personal trainer is anxiety. I never skip a session.

My brain starts working exactly 5 minutes after the deadline.

I chase goals the way cats chase lasers—enthusiastically, but aimlessly.

I wake up confident. Then I hit snooze twice.

My version of “self-care” involves zero movement.

I use GIFs to explain my entire inner monologue.

I don’t argue—I just state my opinion louder.

I only work out when I chase the ice cream truck.

I sneeze louder than my aspirations.

The microwave: beeps once — My anxiety: “RUN, THEY’LL KNOW!”

I have a PhD in pretending to understand what people are talking about.

Me calculating how many hours I can waste and still make the deadline.

The only ring I’ll ever have is a donut.

I’m not a morning person. I’m not a night owl either. I’m just... tired.

The only marathon I’m running is 10 seasons of a show in 2 days.

My Wi-Fi has more ups and downs than my emotions.

Why argue when you can just eat and pretend it’s fine?