1998 by Chris Wayan.
On my bad days, as I'm shackled to the wall by environmental illness, unable to progress but refusing to retreat... I tell myself "Patience."
It seems like an adult thing to do. At least theoretically, I'd like to be one of those. Or try adulthood for free. Kick the tires. Bounce on the mattress.
So I do say it.
But then usually, about a minute later, I find myself yelling the P-word. Loudly. Sarcastically. With a scorching question mark.
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