Kafkaesque metawhorephosis
You feel like you’ve been run over by a truck of existential dread and now you’re a whore who needs a blow job to function.
I posted on Instagram: ‘I’m not broke. I’m just running out of snacks and hope.’
I yelled at my mirror: ‘You’re not my friend. You’re my worst enemy.’
My cat stared at me like I was a sad clown who forgot to bring the confetti.