Though I am 43 1/2*, I still have entirely too much difficulty differentiating between a run-of-the-mill bad mood and an existential crisis. In my unrelenting inability to distinguish between garden variety crankiness and a full-on mental health episode requiring medical attention, it seems I am doomed to be 15 forever.
*For our next installment, we will be covering my ongoing insistence on still occasionally adding the "half" even though I have been told by a New York State Trooper that, "Once you turn ten, you're not supposed to count the half."
"Chicken in the Car-The Car, She Go"
21 hours ago