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something like survivor guilt

There's something you should know about me:
I frequently post angst-free entries.
Yup, no suicidal musings to date.
[the horror]
I don't even have an eating disorder.
[what the?]
Blog heresy! Blog heresy!
The sound of a thous---I mean doz---okay, the sound of a single mouse-click, scurrying from the premises.

So why am I here?

Well..I do suffer.

It's something like survivor guilt.
Not the kind induced by squandering an hour curled-up on ones couch with a bag of Doritos in order to watch Jeff Probst extinguish tiki torches with dimpled gravity, followed by 60 more minutes ogling prada-hoofed fembots and flop-sweat be-decked metrosexuals cockfighting their way up Trump's gaudy, gold-toned ass.

No, not that kind of guilt.

I'm talking happy guilt.

Guilt born of happiness.

Jesus, what-did-I-ever-do-to-deserve-this-much-joy-in-my-life? guilt.

Am I alone in this affliction?


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