Sunday, October 26, 2003

I'm sick of this template. I need a change. The words are too big. The site's too orange. And what's up that goldfish? Where the hell does he think he's going? You know what's going on in his head right now, while suspended in mid-air? He's thinking, "By the time I hit the floor, I'd be long gone from suffocation." Yes, that's what he's thinking. And he'd be right on the money. I'd probably walk over to his lifeless body, impale him with my stiletto heel and bend over to scoop him up in my sister's hoodie to give to the homeless. Yeah, that's what I'd do. That's for being so smug about that time we went shopping and he was thin enough to fit in that Dolce & Gabbana tank top I wanted. He doesn't even look good in blue! Bastard.

Man, I hate brooding guys. But first, let me check the definition of "brooding" in the dictionary.

1. To sit on or hatch eggs.
2. To hover envelopingly; loom

adj.
Kept for breeding: a brooding hen.

Uh ... anyway. I hate brooding guys. They think being pessimistic, dark and constantly deep in their morbid thoughts (or just looking like they are) will attract curious characters of the opposite sex. Well, they're right. You know, these guys have fine tuned looking mentally busy to an art. Looking down, staring at their hands ... or crotch, they beckon to be asked what's on their mind. I've learned to avoid these penis-peddlers. These deadly, silent types. They hide behind their porno mags and guitar stools, craving for someone to say, "Hey, dawg/man/other ghetto variant. How's it going?" In which, they reply nonchalantly, "Nothing much." But when you turn to walk away, they start talking again: "How was your day? What do you think of me? What do you like in bed?" Oh, one of these days, these sorry asses will start learning some social skills ...

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