Fuck, Marry, Kill. I'm not giving any options, just say who's at the top of your list
Fuck: hnn, at this stage I’m not picky. AND WITH NO LIMITATIONS? REALLY? But this is a lie. I am still picky. I will still be picky. I don’t know. There’s a list. I think it’s pretty long. I would feel bad about forgetting someone.
Marry: I can’t commit to fuck someone. My chances of coming up to marriage material are none to negetive. I’m a keeper, aren’t I.
Kill: This dude. This dude talking loudly on his phone right next to me. He’s bringing lunch for everyone tomorrow, they are going for direct copy, and Michael is telling him there’s some sort of prescribed paying. He also came to him in the eleventh hour the other day. The force of my short fuse will be felt by his descendants.
I have one theory about Brittany that allows me to watch Glee with any shred of sanity whatsoever. My theory is that, in the show finale, it will be revealed that Brittany is actually doing advanced college courses and is writing a PHD on Gullibility in Group Conscious and is just testing how much she can stretch believability before she is called out.
My hypothesis that I could go no further than the ridiculous Santa Claus ruse was proved false today when I introduced the belief that a stork would bring me a baby. It appears that this group of selected individuals has become inured to any reasonable sense of reality or ability to appreciate remembered knowledge. I fear I may have tainted the experiment by targeting particularly dense and incapable subjects.
Rather than the expected reaction, the stork reveal produced a push for greater sex education which was not carried out with any sense of education at all, but rather as a forum for agenda pushing. The teacher once again continues to confuse and manipulate vulnerable teens by allowing and performing highly inappropriate song and dance numbers and openly ogling the underage girls within his care with barely a suggestion that it may have been unacceptable.
These subjects continuously prove unable to learn from past mistakes. In a group setting where one of the girls has gone through the traumatic ordeal of teen pregnancy and adoption, the main agenda of any of the teens at any particular point in time seems to be who to sleep with and when.
Even the high school counselor, in a place of extreme influence over misguided teens, seems rigid and unwavering in her demand of pure abstinence instead of intellectual discussion and choice.
My initial dismissal of the marshmallow scheme as too ludicrous has now been revised and I estimate that come Easter, my showing of distress and concern for marshmallow peeps and refusal to eat them will be taken too seriously and lead to frank discussions on eating disorders. My one glimmer of hope for this outcome is that ‘fat bottomed girls’ has already been sung and cannot be repeated.
I LIKE that in three days I’ll be bitching about how tit-cracking cold it is instead of how hellishly hot it is. ANNND that I’ll get to be doing it with two fabulous mates.
I DON’T LIKE that when we get back I need to make serious career decisions. I’m allergic to serious decisions.
WHAT I LIKE ABOUT BOYS GIRLS is hips. The curve, the little protruding bone thing, whatever. I like hips.
MY LAST TEXT MESSAGE SAID well, it was confirming my Acupuncture appointment for tomorrow. So it’s really not all that exciting.
I REALLY WISH …I don’t know. I’m having legitimate trouble with this one. OH I KNOW: planet Earth would get it’s SHIT together. Seriously, it’s fucking FEBRUARY…MARCH and we’ve had floods, fires, cyclones, civil unrest and earthquakes. COOL YOUR TITS.
I LOVE my mother. Back off, she’s fucking amazing. If I end up half the woman she is, I’ll mark that as life well spent.