I hate children.
◊ Fuck Christmas. The baby Jesus? Fuck him, too. Sideways. With a deck of cards. Or a rodent. Or a Magic 8-Ball. Or a vending machine. I don't care. Just celebrate Thanksgiving all month instead. Please, please, please give me a holiday without songs.
Wow, look at that baby Jesus comment. I am going to hell. I know it. I am making the best of it by being heretical as possible. I figure, why go to hell in a handbasket when you can go in a cherried-out classic convertible? Because dammit, Satan, I deserve a better conveyance than a fucking handbasket for all the work I've done.
Oh, and fuck kids. Be sly about it if you're taking that literally, because that's still illegal in most places. Just don't leave 'em anywhere near me. I hate the little fuckers even more now.
I was leaving a restaurant this afternoon with my dad when a mom and her two kids walked past us. I saw one of the kids jig sideways, taking up most of the sidewalk, so I stepped over a bit to get out of the little rat's way. The kid took one long step in my direction and then reached up his fist and punched me in the right breast as hard as he could.
His mom didn't even do anything. Once I got past the shock of being assaulted by the little mutant, I turned around and snarled "Cut that shit out right now, you little brat" in my best I'm-gonna-fucking-kill-you-before-you-hit-puberty-so-you'll-NEVER-fucking-reproduce voice. The kid didn't even blink.
Apparently my death glare has softened since I last had to use it.
I blame alcohol.
Oh, and I got my eyebrow pierced today. Also at Pierce Ink, the same place I got my tongue done. It rules!
Up next: The Epic Story of Defying Physics in Order to Get a Massive Couch into my Place.