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When I get really uncontrollably mad––like high school sophomore mad––I tend to throw things and scream into pillows and pound whatever I can find with my fists. Is that a good thing? Maybe I should hold off on having kids. I have waaay too many people to call back... Scott Greeneye... Pedersen... Yost with the Most... Billy... whatshisface, Adam? From astronomy? Who wants to smoke bowls with me?... hmm. Maybe I should get cracking on that. I've been so bad at calling people back recently; it's a holdover from Tera Angst, I think. I mean, I used to call people back immediately. Now, it's just like... yeah, but why bother?... and somehow I still get pissed when people don't call me back. Sometimes I pretend I can sing all warbly and high like Gwen Stefani, but I can't. Speaking of high... if one is good, six is better. Even though the next day you'll yak at Del Taco, it's totally worth it. Okay, I saw "Death to Smoochy" and, even though it sucked, I still laughed really hard at: "Keep your dignity... my balls! They're on fire!" Also: "He made this! It's made with dildo!" Also: "I'm going on safari, motherfucker. Sa-faaaaa-ri. ::elephant trumpet::" Can I please be Mexican? So I can be a Mextremist and a Mexecutioner and can feel okay about screaming "¡MATANDO GÜEROS!" along with everyone's favorite (probably) Mexican death metal band, Brujeria. "Te aranco tu cabeza con un jalón/ ¡Viva México, cabron! Ahahahahaha..." Going to the mall to find a fucking job... |
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mellow.