Being an emotional sponge is like being the designated driver at a party where everyone else is drunk on feelings, except instead of car keys, they're handing you their existential crises and divorce papers.

They unload, cry, rage, laugh—then pat you on the back, lighter and happier, while you're left holding their emotional baggage like a lost-and-found clerk.

"Such a good listener," they say, as if I signed up for this gig somewhere between "human being" and "unlicensed therapist" on the cosmic job board.

Meanwhile, I'm absorbing everyone's bad vibes like a sponge that didn't read the fine print on its reincarnation paperwork. And let me tell you, nobody warns you about the emotional mildew that comes with it—the kind that grows like fuzzy green therapy bills in the back of your psyche's refrigerator.

But here's the thing: even sponges need to dry out, preferably in the Sahara of Self-Care with a mai tai and noise-canceling headphones.

So, I'm working on it. Maybe I'll stop soaking up every stray emotion, or maybe I'll just start charging rent—premium rates for premium whining, with a special discount for existential crises on Tuesdays.

Either way, I'm done being everyone's personal mood mop. This sponge is wrung out.