October 4, 2002
Ass Kissing Galore
You know what, Mr. Poly Sci TA Barnes? You can kiss my ass. You and your insistence upon butchering my figurative language. It matters not how I say it, just that I do.
You know what, fucking Friday Oxford Ohio rain catching me constantly without my umbrella? You can kiss my ass, too. I don't need you or your nourishment. It matters not that my body is 75% percent water. I like it only when it is inside, and not soaking my cheap K-mart pedal pushers and causing my hair to grow, and grow, and grow, like some sort of sick, overfed Chia pet. Or the blob.
You know what, work? Have a cheek. Just for fun.
My english teacher likes the way I write. I like the way I write. Lots of people like the way I write. So why, why, do stupid pompous TA's insist on changing my language, as though it mattered?
I am going slowly, loudly, mad.
I hate Friday.
It appears, also, to hate me.
I will console myself with the fact that in twelve hours, Mike will have his arms wrapped tightly about me and we will be watching cartoons.
Now let me just wait eleven and a half for that comfort to kick in.
astera at 2:13 p.m.