Is that embarrassing itch a regret or a female thing?

Holy fuck, but I am whooped. These damn kids and their needs. That darn job and its demands. I have things to do. Really important things. Things that are just for me. But the spawn and their incessant whining. The job and the God awful hours, five days a week. What the hell? How is a person possibly supposed to survive this sort of torture? Surely, somewhere on this earth, there is a place where the work week is less than four days per week and the hours are strictly volunteer? Oh wait, there is a place. It is right beside that Republican architect student I was supposed to marry in college. Fuuuuuuck. I sort of blew that one.