Courtesy of Cori M. Waters
Life is funny.
Well not funny, "ha ha." But more like "funny" as in some puppeteer is fuckin around with my strings whilst I scream incoherently "I want to be a real boy!"
I always wanted to be a pirate. Not just for the booty. But for the extremely fashionable threads which are the mandatory scurvy attire. life would be way better if I was sailing the seven seas without a Slq-32 V(3). Our ASMD would be classic parlays and sword fighting. and all my mates would be tan, straight teeth, musicians, that wear an excessive amount of eye make up and fake it the best amongst English accents.
I really do believe that life is like a box of chocolates, but I want the open one that someone has already ran through biting into each Hershey coated enigma, that way I can see what asinine nut or gooey filling is waiting to take my life for a whirlwind of diabetic adventures.( and I want to see the calorie count as well. there is no way that the green M&M could fit into my American Eagle jeans. )
If my pirate career does not take off at the extreme speeds of your finger-banging roller coaster, as I would like it to, I want to be a professional air guitarist. I think there is some real money making in that ancient art of mimed Joe Perry-ism. I could do children's parties, and old folks homes. and then work my way up the presidential inaugurations! I would be famous. And what more is there to life, then fame?
Alright maybe one thing: apples and peanut butter.
And of course, street racing. no no, I'm not talking supped up "rice-burners." I'm talking straight up FOOT RACES. like we all use to do as kids. just randomly walk down the street, find a starting point and finishing line, like the next mail box or street sign, have someone hold the money, and race. the sport will eventually take off to world domination. people will randomly be racing up and down the aisles at their local super markets, bowling alley lanes, and of course estate sales. eventually we will have to start holding steroid and other enhancer testing, -cause no one can keep anything innocent anymore. and don't forget special shoes. those Nike "pump up" sneakers are right out. that's like adding NOS to your lower appendages.
If I could have sex with anyone in the world, from any era, it would have to be Albert Einstein. because if he could figure out that , E=MC^2, then he could definitely find my "G-spot." ( and I bet the moustache would tickle as well.) I've always found musicians and mathematicians to be the hottest guys around. Cause if you can play with numbers and an instrument better than your own penis, then you really have potential in my eyes. just find the cure for cancer, and I'll handle the rest. I'll even let you wear the World Peace Medal while we are doing it doggy style.
I would totally wear a strap-on and do David Bowe in the ass while he sang the songs from the Labyrinth.
My favorite type of gum is the green one. It tastes the freshest, and you can get by without brushing your teeth the day after you wake up in that random dudes house. stank beer breath is not how you want your mom to find you when you ask her to come pick you up.
I want to perform an exorcism.
I do not want to live forever. I'm always afraid that the way persons dressed in the 80's is bound to come back. and I don't think that you can commit suicide after you have drank from the Holy Grail. Bell bottoms and bongs were cool, spandex and ankle warmers, not.
I really hate the ladies at the cosmetic counters at local department stores. they trick you with dreams of a free makeover, and two results are bound to come from this. 1. they only do half your face, then scream "surprise! you get to do the other half." what the--? listen bitch, if I could apply makeup at the same ferocity as you, then I would be the num-nut standing behind the counter in the white lab coat. 2. she is a clown in disguise. she "Wa-La's" the mirror in front of your face, since you have been in a deep potential wonderland of what gorgeous starlit you have become, and you scream in horror, why has she forgotten the red nose that goes "honk?" little do we know, these whale blubber applicators of doom are the ones in control of the world. cosmetics is what we should have looked for in those bunkers in Iraq. cause half made up females ranging in age of "prom date" to "drunk house wife that burnt the last batch of brownies for the last time GOD DAMMIT!" is the true terror of this nation. god help us all! stamped on the side of that Nuke, written in Arabic, are the words "Clinique, all day kissable, one application."
Spiders were perverts in a past life. I don't no how long that "Daddy Long Legs" has been beating off in the corner of my shower, but it's really starting to creep me out. especially when he smiles and gives me a little wink, saying "Daddy likey." (this is all done in a sly Antonio Banderas accent. I don't care what anyone says, Assassins should have one an Oscar.)
FDS is an extreme form of trickery.
I hate Miracle Whip. I would like to miracle-ly whip the ass of who ever packaged that idea.
My ass hurts.
Indian burns really sting.
Beige is a horrible color.
what if all the dictionaries in the world were wrong. Webster would then go into cheap porn, while the tranny taking him from behind would demand the definition of multiple orgasms, Adams apples, and true love. This would be done while they watched Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey's re-runs of "Newlyweds.". Bringing to light the theory "why does it say Chicken of the Sea, when it's tuna!" That's like, why does it burn my eyes when I stare at the sun for too long. Which brings up the question, is it ok to have sex with mentally retarded people as long as they have blond highlights and a nice rack? "These boots were made for walking," that's right Jessie, right up to the short yellow bus, go ahead and keep licking that window honey.
Nascar seems to be excessively fast. On the final lap if a lead driver is blowing the rest of the competition out of the water, a cop would pull them over and proceed to write them a ticket for not using their blinker, while the rest of the cars speed to the checkered flag.
In conclusion, those masochistic parental advisers that gleefully shit on your dreams with "life isn't fair," were completely correct this entire time. So I feel it much necessary to explore the abusive side of realism: I am in the Navy till 2009, I can't fly, dictionaries are correct, (that's why I cant spell anything right,) and I always run out of peanut butter before apple.
~Cori
Well not funny, "ha ha." But more like "funny" as in some puppeteer is fuckin around with my strings whilst I scream incoherently "I want to be a real boy!"
I always wanted to be a pirate. Not just for the booty. But for the extremely fashionable threads which are the mandatory scurvy attire. life would be way better if I was sailing the seven seas without a Slq-32 V(3). Our ASMD would be classic parlays and sword fighting. and all my mates would be tan, straight teeth, musicians, that wear an excessive amount of eye make up and fake it the best amongst English accents.
I really do believe that life is like a box of chocolates, but I want the open one that someone has already ran through biting into each Hershey coated enigma, that way I can see what asinine nut or gooey filling is waiting to take my life for a whirlwind of diabetic adventures.( and I want to see the calorie count as well. there is no way that the green M&M could fit into my American Eagle jeans. )
If my pirate career does not take off at the extreme speeds of your finger-banging roller coaster, as I would like it to, I want to be a professional air guitarist. I think there is some real money making in that ancient art of mimed Joe Perry-ism. I could do children's parties, and old folks homes. and then work my way up the presidential inaugurations! I would be famous. And what more is there to life, then fame?
Alright maybe one thing: apples and peanut butter.
And of course, street racing. no no, I'm not talking supped up "rice-burners." I'm talking straight up FOOT RACES. like we all use to do as kids. just randomly walk down the street, find a starting point and finishing line, like the next mail box or street sign, have someone hold the money, and race. the sport will eventually take off to world domination. people will randomly be racing up and down the aisles at their local super markets, bowling alley lanes, and of course estate sales. eventually we will have to start holding steroid and other enhancer testing, -cause no one can keep anything innocent anymore. and don't forget special shoes. those Nike "pump up" sneakers are right out. that's like adding NOS to your lower appendages.
If I could have sex with anyone in the world, from any era, it would have to be Albert Einstein. because if he could figure out that , E=MC^2, then he could definitely find my "G-spot." ( and I bet the moustache would tickle as well.) I've always found musicians and mathematicians to be the hottest guys around. Cause if you can play with numbers and an instrument better than your own penis, then you really have potential in my eyes. just find the cure for cancer, and I'll handle the rest. I'll even let you wear the World Peace Medal while we are doing it doggy style.
I would totally wear a strap-on and do David Bowe in the ass while he sang the songs from the Labyrinth.
My favorite type of gum is the green one. It tastes the freshest, and you can get by without brushing your teeth the day after you wake up in that random dudes house. stank beer breath is not how you want your mom to find you when you ask her to come pick you up.
I want to perform an exorcism.
I do not want to live forever. I'm always afraid that the way persons dressed in the 80's is bound to come back. and I don't think that you can commit suicide after you have drank from the Holy Grail. Bell bottoms and bongs were cool, spandex and ankle warmers, not.
I really hate the ladies at the cosmetic counters at local department stores. they trick you with dreams of a free makeover, and two results are bound to come from this. 1. they only do half your face, then scream "surprise! you get to do the other half." what the--? listen bitch, if I could apply makeup at the same ferocity as you, then I would be the num-nut standing behind the counter in the white lab coat. 2. she is a clown in disguise. she "Wa-La's" the mirror in front of your face, since you have been in a deep potential wonderland of what gorgeous starlit you have become, and you scream in horror, why has she forgotten the red nose that goes "honk?" little do we know, these whale blubber applicators of doom are the ones in control of the world. cosmetics is what we should have looked for in those bunkers in Iraq. cause half made up females ranging in age of "prom date" to "drunk house wife that burnt the last batch of brownies for the last time GOD DAMMIT!" is the true terror of this nation. god help us all! stamped on the side of that Nuke, written in Arabic, are the words "Clinique, all day kissable, one application."
Spiders were perverts in a past life. I don't no how long that "Daddy Long Legs" has been beating off in the corner of my shower, but it's really starting to creep me out. especially when he smiles and gives me a little wink, saying "Daddy likey." (this is all done in a sly Antonio Banderas accent. I don't care what anyone says, Assassins should have one an Oscar.)
FDS is an extreme form of trickery.
I hate Miracle Whip. I would like to miracle-ly whip the ass of who ever packaged that idea.
My ass hurts.
Indian burns really sting.
Beige is a horrible color.
what if all the dictionaries in the world were wrong. Webster would then go into cheap porn, while the tranny taking him from behind would demand the definition of multiple orgasms, Adams apples, and true love. This would be done while they watched Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey's re-runs of "Newlyweds.". Bringing to light the theory "why does it say Chicken of the Sea, when it's tuna!" That's like, why does it burn my eyes when I stare at the sun for too long. Which brings up the question, is it ok to have sex with mentally retarded people as long as they have blond highlights and a nice rack? "These boots were made for walking," that's right Jessie, right up to the short yellow bus, go ahead and keep licking that window honey.
Nascar seems to be excessively fast. On the final lap if a lead driver is blowing the rest of the competition out of the water, a cop would pull them over and proceed to write them a ticket for not using their blinker, while the rest of the cars speed to the checkered flag.
In conclusion, those masochistic parental advisers that gleefully shit on your dreams with "life isn't fair," were completely correct this entire time. So I feel it much necessary to explore the abusive side of realism: I am in the Navy till 2009, I can't fly, dictionaries are correct, (that's why I cant spell anything right,) and I always run out of peanut butter before apple.
~Cori