The seven minutes each cigarette takes off my life are worth the seven minutes each cigarette takes off my workday. PGP.

Someone immediately telling you that your “million dollar idea” already exists. PGP.

Every week, I am forced to listen to the woman in the cubicle next to me tell her husband what to get from the grocery store for at least 25 minutes. PGP.

Asking your dad to explain your 401K for the sixth time, hoping eventually it will make sense. PGP.

I’m not a girl, not yet a woman. PGP.

Seeing three pregnancy photos in a row on my newsfeed is the best way to get me back to work. PGP.

When finding a place to put food in the break room fridge becomes a game of Tetris. PGP.

Too sick to work, too poor to stay in bed. PGP.

Pulling a George Costanza in the office and “looking frustrated/busy” so people will leave you alone. PGP.

I hear the new system is gonna make everything better. PGP.

Emails from HR reminding you that, despite weed being legal in Denver, random drug tests still test for it and it’s a fireable offense. PGP.

Being terrified to look at your bank account after the weekend. Jesus please let there be at least $20 in there. PGP.