Friday, October 31, 2008
Because honestly, I have no business owning a pair as large as this one, and all they do is take up too much room. Too much room on my short upper body, and too much room in cute clothes for flat-chested women.
Here's the thing: I'm short. Shorter than average. Short enough that boys that are 5'8" are still tall to me, and short enough that my feet dangle from my desk chair. When a person inhibits such a squat amount of space, the need for bigger-than-B-cups drops drastically, though this is something the ta ta layman is seldom aware of.
I just for once would like to be able stretch my arms without popping a button. That's all I'm asking.
This was just a brief rambling of my current complaint. Peace out.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Hi. I'm a recovering crack head. This is my retarded sister that I take care of. I'd like some welfare, please.
While it's seen as a silly mania, I cannot overemphasize the span of emotions that tickle through my body with the simple act of watching characters develop week by week. As a result, the following instances are my greatest causes of concern:
- I cry hard enough when Fishers go Six Feet Under that they may as well have been real people I've known and loved who've died in my life.
- I find serial killers wildly attractive, and even the name Dexter brings a tingling to my unders.
- I've considered pushing more babies out my boom boom than previously intended, just to have more Brothers and Sisters around.
- Sleeping around and acting like a dick have become desired qualities in a man, and David Duchovny could probably put it in anytime and I'd weather the results of the impending diseases as long as Californicating took place.
As can be attested to by several of my friends, I've also become a dealer, pushing new shows I discover like they're precious rocks of crack. But instead of the monetary compensation most wholesalers and pimps require for the infectious drugs they force-feed into other people's veins, the shared addiction is more than enough satisfaction to make me drool at the misfortune of another fallen tube victim.
So my suggestion is to tourniquet that bicep and push in the fat DVR needle, because once it flows in your over-stimulated blood you can never go back. You start to obsess over fallen President Palmer, four shitheads owning a bar, and a 60s cheating husband that just can't go wrong because his hair is too good - it's really quite invigorating, and I suggest it especially for losers with no friends, or people who wish to become losers with no friends.
Now I think I'll settle in for some whiskey and a cigarette...perfect way to start the day.