In the words of Chappelle "ga ga ga ga ga ga ga ga ga"
Daniel keeps coming by my door and knocking lightly to try and get my attention and I’m ignoring him, I don’t believe in paying attention to others. The current state of affairs in the area surrounding me has become more like a personality barren wasteland. Not pertaining to the people I have come to identity by the label of “friend”, but rather all the other insolent bastards who inhabit this piece of dust covered piece of flying lava. It seems that there are only a good 50 (which is a ridiculously low number when you begin to think of all the people that you know, either as a family member, a friend of the family, friends of your own, friends of friends, teachers, fellow students, office mates, store vendors you see often, etc.) people on the entire planet that I can actually stomach for more than a total of five consecutive minutes. Sorry to say, that means that I’d prefer the rest of you assholes dead. What makes that a tad bit less sad *sad for all of you because I just don’t care about your feelings, not sad for me because I have already accepted that I can’t, and just don’t want to, change your personality to better suit hanging out with me* is that all you who I hate, probably already know it. That last sentence seems peculiar, I know addressing something in your journal to people who hate you should mean they won’t read it, but you’d be surprised as to how many people I just don’t like read my journal.
Where was I, oh yes, so my brother, who has by this time obviously realized that he can hear my ferocious typing, keeps tapping at the door to get my attention and I continue to act asleep or completely ignorant of his presence by other methods. He is going to ask me a question about something stupid, like trying to get me to sneak out of the house *which I have not and never will do* to got do something stupid like go to his friends house and drive back home drunk at dawn. Funny that he doesn’t know that I would never do that, I mean seriously, I can drive home at dawn, the hangover light sensitivity would kill me. I kid, of course I refer to the dumb assed situation of driving through Pxxx drunk. The least intelligent part about his request is that he is asking me to go see his friends. I hate those niggers *just so that I am not accused of being racist, all of the friends to which I referred to are white, “nigger” refers to their overall attitude of accepting a lower form of life and is not connected, in my mind, to a certain race*. Maybe if he said “let’s get some titties!” every once and a while maybe I’d be down *if I were single, the only such feminine organs I want now are attached to the girl I’m dating and I’d never sneak over to her house for fear of a Mexican style stabbing, even though she’s a Rican*.
He’s stopped knocking by now and gone to bed, and I should have stopped typing long ago, but this seems to be somewhat therapeutic. My fatigue is allowing for me to type without pausing to see what I’m typing, so my mind is almost literally unfolding onto the screen in front of me. At first I came into Microsoft word attempting to see if I typed long enough that it would somehow be a cohesive story that was hilarious. Daniel fucked it up. Now I have to go and copy and past this shit into a live journal window *I already know I’m lazy*. I should start doing this more often, if the people want it so. Although if I’m going to do it, fuck the people cause I do what I want. Josef Stalin was a very strange man and his mustache makes my bowels quiver out of fear of being thrown in a Gulag camp. Cooter Unit!
Where was I, oh yes, so my brother, who has by this time obviously realized that he can hear my ferocious typing, keeps tapping at the door to get my attention and I continue to act asleep or completely ignorant of his presence by other methods. He is going to ask me a question about something stupid, like trying to get me to sneak out of the house *which I have not and never will do* to got do something stupid like go to his friends house and drive back home drunk at dawn. Funny that he doesn’t know that I would never do that, I mean seriously, I can drive home at dawn, the hangover light sensitivity would kill me. I kid, of course I refer to the dumb assed situation of driving through Pxxx drunk. The least intelligent part about his request is that he is asking me to go see his friends. I hate those niggers *just so that I am not accused of being racist, all of the friends to which I referred to are white, “nigger” refers to their overall attitude of accepting a lower form of life and is not connected, in my mind, to a certain race*. Maybe if he said “let’s get some titties!” every once and a while maybe I’d be down *if I were single, the only such feminine organs I want now are attached to the girl I’m dating and I’d never sneak over to her house for fear of a Mexican style stabbing, even though she’s a Rican*.
He’s stopped knocking by now and gone to bed, and I should have stopped typing long ago, but this seems to be somewhat therapeutic. My fatigue is allowing for me to type without pausing to see what I’m typing, so my mind is almost literally unfolding onto the screen in front of me. At first I came into Microsoft word attempting to see if I typed long enough that it would somehow be a cohesive story that was hilarious. Daniel fucked it up. Now I have to go and copy and past this shit into a live journal window *I already know I’m lazy*. I should start doing this more often, if the people want it so. Although if I’m going to do it, fuck the people cause I do what I want. Josef Stalin was a very strange man and his mustache makes my bowels quiver out of fear of being thrown in a Gulag camp. Cooter Unit!