Generate a Stand-Up Routine

Below is a 3-minute stand-up comedy routine written as a monologue. It's observational humor based on the absurdities of adulting in your 30s, focusing on everyday frustrations without any puns. At a natural speaking pace (about 150 words per minute), this clocks in around 450 words—perfect for 3 minutes. Imagine it delivered with exaggerated facial expressions, pauses for laughs, and a conversational tone.

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Hey, everybody! How you doing? Yeah, you look great—except for that guy in the back who’s clearly regretting his life choices right now. Don’t worry, buddy, we’re all here.

So, I turned 35 last month, and let me tell you, adulting is hitting me like a freight train made of unpaid bills and existential dread. I mean, back in my 20s, I thought being an adult meant freedom—like, I could eat cereal for dinner and stay up all night binge-watching shows. Now? Cereal for dinner is a luxury because I’m too tired to even pour the milk. And staying up late? Ha! If I’m not in bed by 10 PM, I’m negotiating with my pillow like it’s a hostage situation.

Take my mornings, for example. I set three alarms because one isn’t enough anymore. The first one’s at 6:45—gentle beeps, like a polite nudge. I hit snooze. Second one at 7:00—louder, more insistent, like my mom calling about grandkids I don’t have. Snooze again. Third one at 7:15? It’s basically a fire alarm screaming, “Get up, you lazy sack, or you’ll be late to a job that pays for your Netflix addiction!” And even then, I roll out of bed feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. Why? Because sleep is now a myth. My brain won’t shut off. It’s like, “Hey, remember that email you forgot to send? Or that dentist appointment? Oh, and what if aliens invade tomorrow?” Thanks, brain. Real helpful at 3 AM.

And don’t get me started on trying to stay healthy. I joined a gym—big mistake. I show up once a week, stare at the treadmill like it’s a medieval torture device, walk for five minutes, and call it a win. Then I reward myself with a burger because balance, right? My doctor’s like, “You need to exercise more.” I’m like, “Doc, carrying my regrets is a full-body workout.” But seriously, who has time? Between work, errands, and pretending I have a social life, I’m basically a hamster on a wheel—except my wheel is powered by caffeine and denial.

The worst part? All my friends are doing the same dance. We text each other memes about burnout, but no one actually hangs out because we’re all too exhausted. We’re like zombies in sweatpants, shuffling through life. One day I’ll look back and laugh... or cry. Probably both.

Alright, that’s my time. Thanks for listening to my midlife crisis. You’ve been great—go home and hug your pillow. Goodnight!

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(End of routine. This builds from relatable observations to escalating exaggeration, ending on a light, self-aware note for a strong close.)