Monday, October 4
Axl, how retarded could you get? I kid, I kid.

Someone ate the last fucking piece of cake that I lovingly made with my own two hands. I made it. I should have the honors of eating the first half and the second half.

What irritates me is those stupid projects or activities we had to do in elementary school that you had to bring in something from home just to be able to make it or participate in the activity. For example, making crystals that look like nothing but salt water that's been gargled in your germy herpes infected bacterial mouth and spat back out into that baby food jar and a week later when it's completely dried up and the not so clean salt lines the bottom of the jar. Yeah, I hated bringing shit to school just to get a participation grade and saving my ass from the teacher calling my parents complaining why I wouldn't do anything. Then I would be sent to a child psychiatrist. Not every house has a baby. What if your dad's storage is empty or your mom already went through menopause? Or what if your parents are good human beings and use condoms. Or, oh, get this, what if they're good christians and practice abstinence as often as some of us practice masturbation.

And those kids in your class that do have a baby brother or sister or a brother/sister. They could volunteer to bring more baby food jars in for the kids who don't have them, but fuck, poor baby at their house would have to eat a shitload or carrot flavored flamingo diarrhea every day and filling up that diaper with nuclear atomic loads that with just one whiff would kill you faster than a single snort of an entire pound of coke.

Today was good. I can't believe it.

Seriously, I can't.

I can tell that most of the people in my french class, including the teacher herself, aren't fans of Christina Nguyen. Oh well, I couldn't even give a fuck. Haha that Velvet Revolver lyric again, man. Everyone loves to participate in those sociable activities where you gotta interview another student in french. Fuck you, I'll make up shit to write on my paper. I just like to sit in my seat and contemplate whether the candy I'm eating is expired or not and if the green spots on it is really mold and fungus from days, weeks, sometimes (usually) months, of being stored (AKA crushed and beaten to a crumby pulp) in my jacket pockets. And I have a lot of jackets. Some that I don't wear for up to a year perhaps.

My haters don't end there. History class is my official KKK, or, CCC. So in the end, I did not do my essay last night. I had less than a complete paragraph done in 7 hours of sitting in front of this marvelous great working Compaq Presario with Certificate of Authenticity included. Hire me, Donald Trump, hire me! The teacher said she was going to homework check if we had our essays or not. But she didn't. What a relief.

Mr. Wittner yelled at me for eating a cheeseburger in gym class. Hey, without that $1.90 cheeseburger, I wouldn't have been able to slack those 4 laps around the track, asshole. I also played on the wrong ultimate frisbee team today. Because I came in late after my "drink break" and didn't feel like getting a fucking ugly ass pinnie to tuck into my trousers. No one noticed. I couldn't even give a fuck.

I had to meet the french teacher in the library at lunch to make up a speaking test that I missed on Thursday thanks to the 4 hours of bus sitting and 1 1/2 hours of walking around giant rods of stainless steel. I think I aced it. That's FIFTY FUCKING CENTS closer to that Izzy Stradlin CD.

But then again, I might have not done well enough to get paid the two George Washington coins.

Lauren says she is definitely, 100% going to take me to see Conan O'Brien in February. All I need is the OK from my parents. That's as hard as getting a master's degree in accounting for me. I think Duff should do that for this poor little fucker.

To end today's Ramble of Shit, I am going to be trendy.

Funny how everything was roses.
When we held onto the guns.


Christina N. @ 7:23 PM