September 23rd, 2025

Morning:

Sno’ Witty decides it’s finally time to “work on herself.” Not spiritually. Not physically. No, she’s going to therapy — the millennial rite of passage, right after avocado toast and three failed situationships.

She walks in, plops down on the couch, and immediately asks:

“Do you take payment in sarcasm or expired Starbucks gift cards?”

Afternoon:

The therapist nods and says: “So… tell me about your mother.”

Sno’ Witty laughs so loud the neighbor’s fish dies.

“Which season of ‘tell me about your mother’ are we on now? Because I swear we’ve got more reboots than Spider-Man.”

When asked about her coping strategies, she lists:

Wine (boxed, because she’s classy) Meme-making (cheaper than SSRIs) Watching men explain crypto until she regains the will to live

Evening:

The therapist asks: “Have you tried mindfulness?”

Sno’ Witty: “Yes. I was mindful of how broke I was while being charged $175 an hour for you to tell me to breathe. Spoiler: I was already doing that.”

She leaves the session, pockets full of tissues she didn’t use, muttering:

“Maybe the real therapy was the sarcastic quips we made along the way.”

Oh well, she thinks to herself and she moves onwards towards another day in a bizarre world.