Sunday, April 24
It's not funny to hide someone's meds. Not fucking funny at all. Just when I realize I'm late for taking my birth control, I'm like, "Fuck, my hormones are out of balance oh my fucking shit vaginal explosion!!" No, I wasn't really like that actually. But it's not fucking fun at all when you're rummaging through the medicine shelf like a hyena's claws through a giant dead lion's ass looking for the tender part that was totally mutilated by having butt sex eight times a day with giraffes. Not funny. Like what kind of a stupid fucker would purposely try to hide some other stupid fucker who actually needs to be on meds' meds? It's like hiding some ninety-seven-year-old's iron lung under your bed. The old fucker can't even bend down to look under there. I bet just trying to bend down would kill the damn bastard. Poor thing. And poor me, if you get me pregnant you're fucking in for it. I ain't shoving no wire hanger up my twat. Because I'd be having nightmares about Faye Dunaway for months.

So I decided not to go to my dad's friend's going away party today. I decided that my hair and beauty sleep are more important than sitting in one fucking room for six fucking hours watching the same fucking television set for that fucking whole six hours. Yeah, an occasional adult comes by, says hi, I say hi. It's out of respect, yeah like I'd be homies with thirty-year-olds. Bada bing bada boom they go on with their business of going back into the fucking basement and singing karaoke or whatever the fuck. The parents and sibling are gone for the night. Not Christina, no no, Christina stays home and masturbates.

I think I'm going to have oranges for dinner today. Fuck barbecue ribs. Fuck rice and salad. Nothing beats California oranges, man.

It's really pathetic of me to reject two outgoings this weekend alone. Ilona called me on Friday urging me to go to the Film Festival at school. No fucking way, bitch. No fucking way. First of all, no, I'm just not going to get into this. Special activities at school. Special activities at school - at night, where you could be having sex while eating cinnabon buns or sticking your cock in warm places near your radiator. Think about that. Have the common sense to know which place is more practical to go. Can you eat cinnabon buns in a school auditorium? No. No fucking way will I go to a place where you're not allowed to eat cinnamon buns. It's not sane.

Then she calls me this morning at around 11:30 while I was watching Porky's, not having gotten up or brushed my teeth at all. I rejected because I smelled, and I still totally do, horrible and showertime is at night time, before school, okay? If you wanted me to hang out you gotta let me know a night or a few hours in advance because I take fucking forever to get ready. I still need to return her shirt that I stretched too. Let's hope she doesn't want it back so I could keep it forever because I'm a cheap asshole like that.

You know what? I am really starting to completely lose faith in meteorologists. They said today is supposed to rain like Sally Struthers who just drank five gallons of Alka Seltzer. Oh excuse me, there are fucking light clouds outside with strips of sun leaking through them every so often. Not a single fucking drop today. And you expect me to believe that you could save my life from a hurricane? No, from this moment on I'm going to believe that iron rooster attached to the compass that's installed on top of my roof. Roosters don't lie. They sing in the morning and in the evening. Always. I know this because in Hawaii there were a bunch of wild chickens running around and they always sing at the same time, every day. Those things are fucking genius. Even if it's cloudy, they don't need a fucking clock. You don't see chickens running around with a Rolex around their leg, they can't even fit, anyway.


Christina N. @ 4:19 PM