Sunday, February 27
I'd rather bathe than write an essay. Who the fuck makes textbooks that are all in black and white? Fuck you, my eyes aren't non-colorblind for no reason. I need some fucking color to raise my interest level from a -92 to a +1.5.

Nobody likes to smell like tofu. Especially if you're dutch. Why is that? I don't know.

I've gotten nothing done and I'm still hungry. One and a half hours until bedtime. Yippity doo dah, your grandpa listens to ska.

God, I hate ska for some reason. But I understand if you hate my music too. One of us is the shithead, and it's obviously that we're both going to claim the other as the official shithead. So I guess it's up to Whitney Houston to decide who's the shithead.

So the living room has no furniture in it now. The folks are replacing the vinyl flooring with this new laminate flooring to match the dining room. I cut my hand from the bottom of the fucking sofa while trying to move it. Stupid fucks, they can't staple the upholstery the right way. Leaving their shit sticking out like a penis on a log. Just when I thought I was free from the cut that I got last Friday from a linoleum scraper, this piece of shit happens. Like they say, shit happens.

Should be said about Gwar. I think Slash has a shirt that says "Shit happens." But then again, he has a shirt for almost everything there is, including vagina.

My dad started bitching like a little latino bitch about my cut. I didn't even give a fuck about it anyway. It's a cut, big deal. Blood looks cool, and I fucking hate band-aids because I piss and wash my hands a lot, which makes the band-aid wet and soggy and cold. Nobody wants a soggy wet cold patch on their hand. Especially if they're masturbating. He should've just kept all that shit to himself. I was eventually going to walk to the medicine closet on my own in silence anyway. And yes, we have a medicine closet because cabinets are too tall and everyone except me is a midget in the house.

Tomorrow when I come to school in the morning I don't think I'll have to go buy any pudding that costs a fucking sixty-five cents for a little cup. I got my styrofoam ball with the hershey kisses glued to it back from my geometry teacher. About a fourth or more is left of them chocolate pieces. I don't care if they're old, they'll still taste the same.

Aaron Burr is one hell of an ugly motherfucker. He was Thomas Jefferson's vice president. Aaron is a hot name for a guy, but that guy looks like Napoleon Bonaparte who's got his hand in his ass, not his armpit.

I'm contemplating on whether or not I should get to work. It's worth a hundred points or so. Hundred points, my ass.


Christina N. @ 7:50 PM