Monday, March 22, 2004

2 1/2 and a waste.

With 2 days and 8 stories to go, I think I just might beat the world record for fastest writer (with no leads at that) or stupidest girl in the whole entire freakin universe even if other planets harboured legions and legions of rednecks (or minahs for that matter). So whop dee fucking doodle doo.

I don't like this anxiousness. I want to be productive despite my self-loathing, I'm-stupid-and-deserve-to-die state. I envy those who can. Who can simply drown themselves in lakes of work and enjoy doing laps in pools of piss-all assignments. Doesn't it feel like it's useless in the end? That honestly, there is no fucking reason to do shit you don't fucking want to do? That we're all going to die anyway so what's the deal with drowning in a puddle instead of beautiful pristine blue waters? BASTARDS.

School might as well suck my non-existant penis. And I'm still hearing (with one ear because the other's blocked) about how grades can be affected easily. Basically like how a fly can sit on shit and cause a depression in it. Yes. Like shit. So now the question is, is there a fucking point to my ranting? I don't think I need a point. I think the point is written all over this post. I think that me sitting here, updating this, is just another reason to waste time and further emphasise my achievement in managing to finish 8 stories in 2 days. (if that's going to happen at all) So somebody make ready my medal and mould my trophy and please make sure it's shining. And I rather the title "fastest writer" thank you.


::me:: at 17:47