It got my dander up, so we're gonna have to talk it out. Address it. No, not like a letter - like, we're gonna actually talk about it (and use fancy words that make our insides chancy - GERD). I got this feeling in my gut like it's all twisted up. Like when I read Where The Red Fern Grows and now I can never not see entrails hanging out of a loyal dog's gut. Man, I loved that book. I cried like a bitch. So did my mom. Not like a bitch, though. Don't ever think that I would call my mom a bitch! Cause I wouldn't. And she's not a bitch. And I don't call people I like bitches ... unless they are named Little Ann and they're smart and loyal and shit, tail-waggy.
It's all a lie, I don't like dogs.
I don't dislike them either. I just prefer cats. Dogs are kind of like really clingy chicks with Dad issues. The bitches. The dogs, I mean.
We all love to laugh. Especially at the expense of others. Why is that? I mean, I get the appeal of laughter, but I am more inclined to cry at the expense of others. Why? Cause I just got ten emo points, and one more power up gets me fingernails that stay black forever.
I don't really hate people. There's a few people I really don't like. But it's not like I want to do anything crazy like cram all their facial orifices with cat litter until they die like fucking dog bitches. That's something someone like me would never even think about. I think about wildflowers and Jesus.
I don't even know what's going on. Frankly, I'm offended. You should probably be offended, too. Don't blame me though. Blame Nancy Reagan. That may not make sense to you, but, trust me, she deserves to shoulder a lot of the blame.
I met a girl once who knew a girl twice as pretty as she was. And she was beautiful. It wasn't even that the other girl was prettier. They were just different. Like apples and tow trucks. Both gorgeous. But the one girl thought she was ugly. I told her she wasn't. A few hundred times - then I stopped. Some people you just can't reach. So you get what we had here last week. Plagiaristastic.
Duck, duck, duck, goose! What a terrible game. Musical chairs. Even worse. What the fuck is wrong with us? Why do we want to make one kid feel singled out for the amusement of the others? It's not right. It's not cool. I gotta say criss-cross applesauce because "Indian Style" is somehow offensive even though it just describes a way of sitting. Which, I get it, we don't want anyone to feel singled out and you're not supposed to say Indian anymore, even if it makes you secretly gleeful because it makes Columbus look like a retard. No, we gotta single out little kids. We don't worry about how real, actual geese feel about their shit being appropriated. Do you know how much abuse is endured by a wooden chair during a rousing game of musical chairs? You inhuman sociopath.
I almost died today. I understand, it's hard to hear a super loud motorcycle horn when you're driving with earphones in. You tried to single me out. Goose me. But I was quicker. So, duck you ... bitch.