Joy
Joy.
As sung by a chorus of cherubic hallmark angels. Or maybe a chorus of Rufus the Naked Mole Rat, Kiki the poinging ferret, and that fucked up squirrel thing from that website. Whatever the fuck it is.
Joy.
Yeah, that's the sound I hear when I very conscientiously remember to buy beer on the way home, and, upon opening my fridge to stuff the beer in, find that there is something blocking me in my stuffing efforts, and that something is an unopened case of beer.
Joy.
And let me tell you, I need that beer after my somewhat lacking efforts on my midterms today. Yep, fucked those puppies right up the ass. But you already knew that was coming, didn't you? Or maybe you didn't. Maybe you didn't read my last post. Maybe you just didn't care. Or maybe, just maybe, you're actually a figment of my imagination......Deep.
See, my little imaginary playmates? This, right here, right now, is why you don't do drugs. But you already knew that, because you are wise in your fictitious existence.
Oh, wait, I'm not on drugs. Forgot about that. Old habits die hard, I guess. Unless, of course, you count my recent forays into the realms of daily hormone dosing. Don't believe everything that you read, kids. When those docs and those ads tell you that popping some legal pills will help solve that little zit problem you've got going on, what they mean is it will turn you into Giant Walking Acne Woman With The Neverending Period And The Freakishly Bad Attitude. I keep having to fight back tears when I can't beat the crap out of people. And fight back tears when I can't think of anyone I would like to beat the crap out of. And fight back tears when I find someone new that I am technically not allowed to beat the crap out of. And fight back tears when I remember that I'm actually a fucking pansy who would get my ass kicked should I finally decide to attempt to beat the crap out of someone.
Crap. Beating. Pansy. Zit.
Of course, you, my oh so wise, blemish free, smoothly bikini lined, toned and tanned fictitious friends, you already new that hormones will fuck you up, didn't you? And I'll bet you call your parents every week like clockwork, and find creative uses for leftovers too, don't you?
Sorry, didn't mean to snark. But you're so very understanding; Thank you.
Sure, I guess I knew that progestine isn't really all it's made out to be, but sometimes I just can't handle a little too much Okay in my life. Things were going so smoothly....kinda like a flatline, ya know? Had to find a way to shake things up a little.
And if a few too many zits gives me an excuse to get drunk and stoopid by myself on a Wednesday night, so be it. At least it's better than getting drunk and stoopid on a Wednesday night just to kill time until Thursday.
Speaking of killing time, what the fuck is it I'm waiting for, exactly? To get my finance diploma, get a job in an office, (no view/free coffee), get a manicure once a week to distract from my little acne problem? Make enough to pay the bills, maybe even the student loan bill, save some for The Kids education?
Maintain life. Just for shits and giggles. Get myself a breastlift for my fortieth birthday. Make my last payment on those loans, and start really focusing on that retirement fund. Move to Florida, complain about the tourists, and the heat. Move to Alaska, complain about the mosquitoes, and the short summer season.
What am I waiting for? Right now, I don't have a fucking clue. But I want it to be something. Anything, fuck, I'd take waiting for a blowjob, if I had a dick.
How do I justify all this waiting, if I can't come up with anything decent to wait for?
Oh yeah, that's it. I'm waiting for clear skin. That's the gold standard, motherfuckers, the dream of a lifetime.
Joy.
As sung by a chorus of cherubic hallmark angels. Or maybe a chorus of Rufus the Naked Mole Rat, Kiki the poinging ferret, and that fucked up squirrel thing from that website. Whatever the fuck it is.
Joy.
Yeah, that's the sound I hear when I very conscientiously remember to buy beer on the way home, and, upon opening my fridge to stuff the beer in, find that there is something blocking me in my stuffing efforts, and that something is an unopened case of beer.
Joy.
And let me tell you, I need that beer after my somewhat lacking efforts on my midterms today. Yep, fucked those puppies right up the ass. But you already knew that was coming, didn't you? Or maybe you didn't. Maybe you didn't read my last post. Maybe you just didn't care. Or maybe, just maybe, you're actually a figment of my imagination......Deep.
See, my little imaginary playmates? This, right here, right now, is why you don't do drugs. But you already knew that, because you are wise in your fictitious existence.
Oh, wait, I'm not on drugs. Forgot about that. Old habits die hard, I guess. Unless, of course, you count my recent forays into the realms of daily hormone dosing. Don't believe everything that you read, kids. When those docs and those ads tell you that popping some legal pills will help solve that little zit problem you've got going on, what they mean is it will turn you into Giant Walking Acne Woman With The Neverending Period And The Freakishly Bad Attitude. I keep having to fight back tears when I can't beat the crap out of people. And fight back tears when I can't think of anyone I would like to beat the crap out of. And fight back tears when I find someone new that I am technically not allowed to beat the crap out of. And fight back tears when I remember that I'm actually a fucking pansy who would get my ass kicked should I finally decide to attempt to beat the crap out of someone.
Crap. Beating. Pansy. Zit.
Of course, you, my oh so wise, blemish free, smoothly bikini lined, toned and tanned fictitious friends, you already new that hormones will fuck you up, didn't you? And I'll bet you call your parents every week like clockwork, and find creative uses for leftovers too, don't you?
Sorry, didn't mean to snark. But you're so very understanding; Thank you.
Sure, I guess I knew that progestine isn't really all it's made out to be, but sometimes I just can't handle a little too much Okay in my life. Things were going so smoothly....kinda like a flatline, ya know? Had to find a way to shake things up a little.
And if a few too many zits gives me an excuse to get drunk and stoopid by myself on a Wednesday night, so be it. At least it's better than getting drunk and stoopid on a Wednesday night just to kill time until Thursday.
Speaking of killing time, what the fuck is it I'm waiting for, exactly? To get my finance diploma, get a job in an office, (no view/free coffee), get a manicure once a week to distract from my little acne problem? Make enough to pay the bills, maybe even the student loan bill, save some for The Kids education?
Maintain life. Just for shits and giggles. Get myself a breastlift for my fortieth birthday. Make my last payment on those loans, and start really focusing on that retirement fund. Move to Florida, complain about the tourists, and the heat. Move to Alaska, complain about the mosquitoes, and the short summer season.
What am I waiting for? Right now, I don't have a fucking clue. But I want it to be something. Anything, fuck, I'd take waiting for a blowjob, if I had a dick.
How do I justify all this waiting, if I can't come up with anything decent to wait for?
Oh yeah, that's it. I'm waiting for clear skin. That's the gold standard, motherfuckers, the dream of a lifetime.
Joy.
posted by Impulsivecompulsive | 7:40 PM
3 Comments:
Beer it is. I follow orders well. And I tried throwing beer at the screen, did it get to you? Hope so.
There is very little more satisfying than the feeling of a cool beer on your tongue at the end of a day. I firmly believe this.
I say very little because there are a few things... just very little.
I can think of a few things more satisfying as a beer, but beer is pretty much the easiest on my list of satisfying things for me to access. So I'll stick with the beer.
Post a Comment
<< Home