Kafkaesque metawhorephosis

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You turn into a screaming mess because you saw too much sad stuff and now you’re a hot mess who needs a blowjob or you’ll die from stress.

My therapist said I was having a meltdown from watching too many bad breakup videos.

I turned into a drunk whale after my ex said I was a ‘disaster’.

I posted a tweet: ‘I’m not a human. I’m a broken toaster.’

You become a confused whore who thinks life is a horror movie and you need a snack and a blow job to survive.

My coworker said I looked like a lost puppy who just got dumped by a vampire.

I texted my mom: ‘I need a cheeseburger and a sob story.’

I screamed at a pizza box: ‘Why won’t you fix my life?’

You start acting like a confused alien who got stuck in a whorehouse because your brain is melting from too much chaos.

I told my dog I was going to take over the world, but I just cried into my cereal.

My boss said I looked like a mad scientist who forgot to charge his phone.

I texted my crush: ‘I’m not crazy. I just have a lot of existential problems.’

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.

You become a jacked-up version of yourself who thinks you’re a superhero, but you just need a blow job and a snack to survive.

I told my barista I was saving the world, but I just needed a latte and a nap.

I texted my ex: ‘You broke me. Now I’m a broken toaster who needs a blow job.’

I screamed at my ceiling: ‘I’m not a mess. I’m a masterpiece in the making.’

You become a confused human who thinks they’re a god, but they just need a blow job and a burger to make sense of life.

I posted on Twitter: ‘I’m not a god. I’m just a sad man who forgot to eat.’

My neighbor told me I looked like a god who just got dumped by a demon.

I yelled at my fridge: ‘You’re not my friend. You’re my enemy.’