you have got to be fucking kidding me
You know, there are some nice things to be said for living on your own in a hut in the Hidden Hamlet. Aside from the cheesy as hell name, and the sometimes cheesy as hell neighbors (Anne of Avonlea and the little fucking mermaid are fucking next door? What the fuck is that shit?), it's nice. Cozy, quiet, and mercifully lacking in one George Lass snoring less than two feet away from me and one smelly, skinny-assed Brit sleeping on my fucking floor.
But there are some bad things. Like the fact that it's a fucking hike from there to the Compound. I want food, I have to work for it. That's not a bad thing, but it can be a special pain in the ass when I get to the Compound, make myself some dinner, sit down in the rec room to enjoy the food and read a book, and then the jukebox decides to rear its ugly head.
I thought we had some semblance of a mutual respect forged. I thought that if I didn't fuck with it, it wouldn't fuck with me. I thought we had an understanding that if it (or any other of its hellish, inanimate brethren) decided to fuck with me, I would fuck its shit up.
I thought wrong.
Because the damn thing is playing "Maniac" and I swear to God, it's doing it just for me.
It's been a long enough day already. I've had to do my fucking patrol route with the WASP princess (who was nominating for the council, because what we really need on this island full of fucking honkies is a governing body comprised entirely of self-important honkies) and this hallucination bullshit still hasn't been figured out and there's a fucking vampire or some shit running around, and when I try to have an evening of fucking QUIET I have this tin bucket blasting my past at me.
She's a maniac, maniac on the floor
And she's dancing like she's never danced before
She's a maniac, maniac on the floor
And she's dancing like she's never danced before
I've got nothing against Jennifer Beals. Or Michael Sembello for that matter. I got a problem with that bitch killing me with a fucking leg warmer because I was created them and was making money off of them and she wasn't. I got a problem with that movie because it just reminds me of all the bullshit I went through, dancing my ass off and dealing with those pretentious, self-centered bitches who thought they were the shit when they were weak. I got a problem with the jukebox for reminding me of all that shit.
You work all your life for that moment in time.
It could come or pass you by.
I stand up from my seat and lift the gun without even thinking. I fire two quick shots into the face of the machine, and for two seconds I relish in the rush of satisfying victory at the ensuing silence.
And then in the third second, the goddamn thing starts up again.
"Mother fucker."
[Yeah, she just shot the jukebox. Clearly there's nothing wrong with it other than um.. two 9mm bullet holes in the front. It's Roxy so... you tag in, you take your chances. :D But she won't shoot anyone. Your pup isn't worth the ammo. Late tags and slow time sooo welcome.]
But there are some bad things. Like the fact that it's a fucking hike from there to the Compound. I want food, I have to work for it. That's not a bad thing, but it can be a special pain in the ass when I get to the Compound, make myself some dinner, sit down in the rec room to enjoy the food and read a book, and then the jukebox decides to rear its ugly head.
I thought we had some semblance of a mutual respect forged. I thought that if I didn't fuck with it, it wouldn't fuck with me. I thought we had an understanding that if it (or any other of its hellish, inanimate brethren) decided to fuck with me, I would fuck its shit up.
I thought wrong.
Because the damn thing is playing "Maniac" and I swear to God, it's doing it just for me.
It's been a long enough day already. I've had to do my fucking patrol route with the WASP princess (who was nominating for the council, because what we really need on this island full of fucking honkies is a governing body comprised entirely of self-important honkies) and this hallucination bullshit still hasn't been figured out and there's a fucking vampire or some shit running around, and when I try to have an evening of fucking QUIET I have this tin bucket blasting my past at me.
She's a maniac, maniac on the floor
And she's dancing like she's never danced before
She's a maniac, maniac on the floor
And she's dancing like she's never danced before
I've got nothing against Jennifer Beals. Or Michael Sembello for that matter. I got a problem with that bitch killing me with a fucking leg warmer because I was created them and was making money off of them and she wasn't. I got a problem with that movie because it just reminds me of all the bullshit I went through, dancing my ass off and dealing with those pretentious, self-centered bitches who thought they were the shit when they were weak. I got a problem with the jukebox for reminding me of all that shit.
You work all your life for that moment in time.
It could come or pass you by.
I stand up from my seat and lift the gun without even thinking. I fire two quick shots into the face of the machine, and for two seconds I relish in the rush of satisfying victory at the ensuing silence.
And then in the third second, the goddamn thing starts up again.
"Mother fucker."
[Yeah, she just shot the jukebox. Clearly there's nothing wrong with it other than um.. two 9mm bullet holes in the front. It's Roxy so... you tag in, you take your chances. :D But she won't shoot anyone. Your pup isn't worth the ammo. Late tags and slow time sooo welcome.]