I am in a foul ass mood today. It's been building for days and now it's simmering beneath my pores wanting to boil over in an all out temper tantrum. Verunca Salt has nothing on me. If there was actually someone here to listen to me, I would stomp my feet, throw blunt objects, and scream "Why ME!?!" until my lungs ache.
I'm getting fat again. I feel it. In the last two months I have worked out once. Is it because I'm too busy? Nope, it's cause I'm a lazy fucktard who doesn't feel like popping in a workout video for a half hour. Lucky for me, my inactivity hasn't kept me away from extra cheese pizzas, chocolate chip cookies, french fries and fried chicken.
I'm broke. A $250 doctor bill here, a $1000 water mitigation invoice there. Oh look, I'm overdrawn again. Payday isn't even exciting anymore. The money is gone before it hits my account. And oh yay!! I gotta find another $400 bucks to head home for my brother's high school graduation. Can I just send a card?
Todd just got executed via lethal injection for killing Margaret and her unborn child. Too bad both Margaret and child are very much alive. That vapid bitch Paige knew for months that her ex husband, Spencer, set up Todd so that he could have a clear shot at Todd's fiancee Blair. But did Paige tell her boyfriend Bo, Llanview's police commissioner. NO!! She's pussied out because she didn't want Bo to be implicated in the frame up (even though he had nothing to do with it). She did nothing! She just stuttered and stammered and lied whenever Bo asked what she knew about Spencer and Todd. Hello bitch! A man's life is at stake. That's whole lot more important than trying to hold to Bo. Besides he dumped your lying ass anyways, so what was the point in keeping quiet? And now an innocent man is dead and his kids are left without a father because Paige decides 20 minutes before Time of Death that she's going to tell the truth. Too bad she got in a car accident on her way to the prison. I hope she dies. STUPID BITCH!!
I want to move home. I want to move home YESTERDAY! Fuck that, I want to move home 3 years ago. Damn it. Am I doing anything to get me closer to that goal. Nope. Haven't submitted one resume, written one cover letter. NOTHING. Maybe a job will fall out of the sky. I doubt it. I'm pissed off with my lacadaisacal ass.
I want to be a writer. Yeah yeah, I already write. I wanna get paid for it. Yeah, I said it. I don't care if it's not proper etiquette to announce on a blog that you want to be more than a blogger. Fuck it. Half the blogosphere does and if they say they don't, they're lying. No one would tell Judith Regan, "thanks but no thanks" if she came a knocking with a six figure 2 book deal. And no one would say, "I'll pass" if The New Yorker offered to run a six part series of their fantabulous blog entries. So do I put together pitch letters for agents? Do I write eye catching query letters to magazine editors? Do I try and finish a manuscript or article of any kind? Yes, but then I give up after five minutes and start patrolling the famous blogs. Ugghh, why does she get 20,000 hits a day? Booo, hisss. How come he has over 100 comments for everything he posts? Blech!! Why not me?! Why! Why! Why!! Self pity has driven me to the depths of hateration. I hate being a covetous bitch.
And then there's the shit filled cherry on top. The Pistons are trailing the Heat 3 games to 1 in the Eastern Conference Finals. Pat Riley and that band of ogres can lick my unwaxed ass crack.