I should know by now not to talk to my Mom when I'm in a depressive slump - she always knows just how to remind me that every decision I have made, probably since I decided to draw my first breath, has been the wrong one. It was bad enough before I talked to her; now I've completely lost faith in my ability to make a simple meal - the apartment reeks of onions and probably everything is going to taste foul and people are going to despise me for serving substandard food. I hate my life.
Happy holiday, indeed.
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