Feb 1, 2005

Today was a bad day. Short fuse on I + inflammatory behaviour of others = pronounced explosion.

I was recently informed by some "romance coach" on TV that you should "never cut your pasta." Shame on me, for my mother made spaghetti last night and I sliced every last strand up with the blunt edge of my flatware utensil to facilitate the oral consumption process. How unromantic of me for not twirling the pasta around my fork like a couth gentleman. Next time I'll just use my paws. The cushy compost pile out back is a delightful place to eat. ...Like a fancy steakhouse, even though you're not surrounded by dozens of people noisily chattering about the latest reality TV show and grinding up dead cow guts with their false dental work. No, the compost pile isn't that romantic. There isn't even a designated self-service tobacco poisoning section! That's right, folks! Better leave your carcinogen-crammed cancer cases in the paddywagon; there's no chimney for you on my stack.

Humans are ridiculous.

I feel bitter. Like a salt lick peed on by a mountain goat. I have this overwhelming urge to bite a stranger and carve my initials into their left temple with a hobby knife while strumming a Neuroticfish song on a banjo. Where's Dr. Phil when you need him? I never have these problems at 3:00 in the afternoon!

I'm sleeping through my mourning economics course tomorrow. Group work is becoming highly loathsome, considering it's contradictory to my entire approach on life. The multi-tiered classrooms make interaction between classmates on different rows nigh impossible, so why bother making people count themselves into groups like we're in second grade?

I can be such a cub sometimes.

But just wait until I receive my deluxe fluorescent highlighter set of mass destruction. I shall wield my mighty vibrant tip and grace the history books with my skillful stroke of renowned resplendency! Your fate is emphasised in a morbid shade of bright pink, so you'd better run faster than the ink! Vengeance will be mine, you monkeys.

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