Wednesday, February 04, 2004

Yah! All hail the girl who passed her G1 this morning. The lady accepted my Body Shop card as a form of identification. My license is not going to look good, that's for sure. Hell, it won't look like anything. Just me, staring into space with a greyish tint to my seemingly weathered face. Like cracked ashphalt or cement mix not quite uniformly incorporated, kept in the back of a beat-up GMC truck. I have a theory that everytime someone's picture turns out well, an angel loses its wings. That's why there are so few success stories.

I went to school to check out my marks. Got 92% on my Writer's Craft exam. Am happy with that. Must try to get more than 90% on my comparison essay on surrealism in film to achieve an overall course average of 90%+. Politics was a bitch. I don't know why I even bothered to go check my mark for that stupid class. It was the worst course I've ever taken in my life and a total waste of my time. Let's just say my final mark was 15% over the cut-off point for Journalism in Concordia University, but 5% away from being useful to me. My top six U courses will get me that $2000 entrance scholarship, but Politics will definitely not be included.

Afterwards, Shotgun Toter and I went to the mall to explain the string of homophobic/psychotic/needy/suicidal/sensitive/paranoid/depressed/lonely/suicidal/suicidal/suicidal men she's ever encountered to Math Jesus. He thought it was hilarious. Oh, it is ... in retrospect. I'll explain. You know, when you cut off the heads of vampires, they're supposed to die? You breathe a sigh of relief and turn around to walk away, only to hear them creep up to you, crying, "What's going on between us?" In reality, it would equate to you telling one to fuck off, but they meander through your life even more homophobic/psychotic/needy/suicidal/sensitive/paranoid/depressed/lonely/suicidal/suicidal/suicidal. My advice to her hinted at telling them to just kill themselves, but I realise now that they'd never go through with their *slit, slits* and *burn, burns* because they enjoy telling people about their pitiful lives after every bout of depression ... which is quite often. If they were dead, they wouldn't be able to whine about their "feelings" and drown in their sorrow.

That's it for today. Adios, hombres!

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