The thing I’m writing at work is now up to 37 pages.
I’m starting to think it will never be finished.
Gripe.
Complain.
Bellyache.
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The thing I’m writing at work is now up to 37 pages.
I’m starting to think it will never be finished.
Gripe.
Complain.
Bellyache.
*sympathy*
*hands you a virtual tea. Or beer. Or both*