I was trying to open a jar of pickles yesterday, and it just wouldn't budge.

I didn't just struggle; I dropped to my knees, looked up at the ceiling, and delivered a full Shakespearean monologue about the futility of human endeavor against the unyielding forces of the universe, all to the backdrop of a soaring orchestral score only I could hear.

He told me he was 'a really good cook' on his dating profile, and that he loved making 'gourmet meals.'

Turns out 'gourmet' means microwaving chicken nuggets and serving them on a plate he just rinsed under the tap.

I swear, the most anxiety-inducing moment of my day isn't forgetting my keys or running late for work.

It's realizing my phone is at 15% and I still haven't scrolled through my friend's 30-part Instagram story about her weekend brunch.

My morning commute isn't just a drive to work.

It's the opening credits sequence of my own indie film, complete with a carefully curated soundtrack, intense stares into the middle distance, and every other driver is an extra in the grand narrative of my day.