Sunday, December 11
Yesterday, after a six-hour day at work of nothing but register register register, I went shopping at Short Hills. Yeah fucker, that amazingly rich people's mall that has the only public bathrooms that I'd comfortably take a shit in. The reason I wanted to go there was that it had one of my most favorite fucking stores located within its boundaries: Anthropologie. I never wanted to leave. I wanted to buy every single goddamn thing in that store, but instead just ended up buying a $30 clearance sweater. I also picked up some gifts for some friendly folks at that store and the rest of the mall also.

For some reason when I buy gifts for people, they end up being more expensive and better quality than a lot of the things that I buy for myself; I guess if I buy a gift for someone, I have to genuinely care about them, therefore getting them something nice and sincere. Being an asshole for these types of things is not acceptable, unless the person is a fan of some shit like Fall Out Boy and I want to get a good laugh by getting them a toiletry set at the dollar store. If you listen to Fall Out Boy and think they are good musicians, then you are automatically on my fucking shit list.

Disappointingly, tomorrow my mom and I are going to have to go to the mall that's nearby our house - the stupid Rockaway Townsquare Mall - the Homeland of the Scene Kids and Fake Wrist-Slitters Who Hang Out There Because They're Too Fucking Pussy to Actually Slit Their Wrists. I think New Jersey is famous for our insane population of scene kids. I'm not positive about that fact, but I'm pretty sure it is. That mall fucking sucks so many balls that I vowed never to seriously shop there. The only thing that it has going for itself is that I have a few friends who work there and I could visit them from time to time if I ever go there. And the only times that I go there is that if some other friend is too cheap or lazy to go to another quality shopping center with me when we want to hang out, or my mom makes me because she's too lazy to go someplace else that's farther.

Yeah motherfucker, I talk about shopping a lot. Because I'm a fucking girl.

Work today was fucking exhausting. Got there at 10:00AM and didn't get a break until almost 4:00. Then I went home at 5:00. I think I only spent one hour either throwing pillows like John Elway throws babies across football stadiums onto high shelves in the stockroom with one of my co-workers while trying to organize a good one hundred of them, and the other six hours was all register and helping out customers picking which fucking candle holders and table runners they want. But it's a pretty good job I'd have to say; There's practically nothing to complain about.

Oh man did I ever tell you kiddos about the janitor and the chicken nuggets story? Well I think it was last Wednesday or something, when I was walking into school, and I saw a janitor outside sweeping up these weird brown chunks off the ground. Well when I was inside, I see my friend and he asks me if I saw the janitor outside that was sweeping. I say yeah I did. Then he tells me that when he was outside he asked what the janitor was doing and the janitor said something like, "My boss likes to feed the birds in the morning with chicken nuggets." And then my friend comments something like, "That's cannibalism! That's horrible!" So I laugh my ass off for a good long time because that is just one of the funniest fucking things I have ever heard.

If the role model principal feeds birds chicken nuggets, then I might as well feed bacon bits to my pigs or beef jerky to my cattle. Because you know, I raise cattle. Whenever I walk home from school I like to see my black and white cows grazing on my front lawn around our wooden flowerbeds and garden lamps. It's a beautiful, relaxing sight to come home to. I don't give a shit if it's 23 degrees out and the grass is dead, they're still grazing no matter what. I train my cows to stay on my property and to eat grass. It doesn't matter if the grass is dead - they eat grass. Fuck you neighbors with your flamingo lawn ornaments, I got cattle.

If only that were true. I swear, I'm using live cattle as lawn ornaments when I settle down like the white man's American dream when I'm 35 years old. I don't need no lawn gnomes or iron deer statues. I want real cows. And if you get tired of that look, you just take that weird giant candy cane-shaped stick that sheepherders carry around and poke your cows in the ass and make them go into the garage or something. Or if you're awesome enough, you'd have your own barn house in your backyard next to the kiddie pool that you bought at a hardware store like Home Depot, or for you trendy people: Lowe's.


Christina N. @ 7:11 PM