I wish I didn’t have all of this computer shit at my desk.

I just really do. I waste too much time looking at the internet, goofing off with Paint and the games that came installed in this stupid fucker and all the crap that people send me via e-mail.

Enough already. I don’t want a visit from the “Wishing Frog” or whatever the hell the good luck e-mail for this week is. If I actually had ten friends who went for that kind of shit to send it too, half of them wouldn’t be speaking to me at any given moment of time and the other half I would have no respect for because they pass around that internet spam shit. Please, please don’t send me any scanned images of prayer cards, if God really wants to send me a message, there are plenty of bushes in my front yard, he’ll set fire to one of them, thanks.

That spiteful pest known as Harlow Beans PhD., bit me this morning. It was my punishment for doing something so hateful as to spend the couple of extra minutes I had talking to her. Damn me. I ran my hand down her back and gave her tail a little twist, just like I do every Saturday morning when I don’t have to literally jump over her and run out the door. Anyway, I do it on a Wednesday morning and that spicy little tart latches onto my leg with her front paws and bites me. Look cat, the Sunday paper is still on the dining room table, maybe you should check the ads for a job and a new squat, cause if you keep this act up, we may have to re-evaluate your position in this organization.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, I can’t concentrate on much lately. I need to be studying for that fecking Algebra exam instead of killing time with this shit and listening to Sarah Brightman. Shit, the next thing you know I’ll be listening to Frank Sinatra voluntarily. Jeez.

Ok, along with other things in the realm of impossibility, I have developed a silly-assed crush on a local human-interest reporter.



Now, why exactly this is, I don’t know. I’ve even found myself getting out more on the weekends and trying a couple of things I’ve seen in his reports, like belly-dancing. It’s weird, even for me.

Probably shouldn’t have even bothered to go there.