Yeah, I could have done this project when I got home at 4:00. Or at 7:00, right after I had finished dinner. Or even at 9:00, after my shower. Yeah, I could have been responsible and also worked on this ahead of time; it was assigned four days ago. Yeah, I could have saved myself this 3:00 AM procrastination frustration.
But fuck being happy. Yeah fuck that. Where’s the fun?
Apparently I just fucking love being miserable.
I seem to yell a lot on the internet.
OH GOD I’M ONE OF THOSE ANNOYING ALL CAPS PEOPLE
Ugh, but SERIOUSLY. I SO AM.
I cannot wait to do this.
I also want to write a song. It’ll have a big build-up and then get very very quiet, with a beat which increases in rapidity and a trumpet noise somewhere. It will start with “I hear the trumpets.”
I want to start writing and performing beat poetry.
So I will.
My first poem shall be entitled: “I can’t write a poem and bake a cake at the same time.”
Dad picks me up from school, first thing he says:
“You look more average every time I see you.”
… Thanks Dad.
Good god of all that is holy and gracious.
If another person tells me I looked better with long hair or says - and I quote - “you were sexy but now you’re not,” (thanks dickface) I will buy them a puppy, wait till they develop a loving bond and then kill it. And their mother. And their father. And Adam Sandler, because you know poopfaces like that like Adam Sandler, and I’ve always wanted a reason to kill Adam Sandler.
I LOOK SEXY WITH SHORT HAIR TOO DAMN YOU