Wednesday, December 3, 2003

This is entertaining.

Music: KoRn-"Here to Stay."
Current phrase that is lovely: The suicidal cats were like mad watefalls running off the hurr of the optimistic cataract.
Reason why this phrase is awesome: Because I made it up as I wrote it, and it doesn't make sense.
Thing I wish for at this moment: I wish for melons. Especially water melon, for that stuff 'tis teh shiz.
Current poem I was working on: One abot superheroes and villians. It shall be fun once I post it. Currently it is only 1,000 words, sadly.
And the last question, why? Because.

I am in an odd mood. It is late and odd moods seem to follow you when it is late, and isn't that just a flipper.

At this moment I feel tired. So I must sleep soon.

But first, a quick recount of the day's events in lazy fashion.

I went to school. I moped around. I got my gomework. I ate my lunch. I went to more school. And then I went home in my mustard car. And once home I came upon the internet and I sat, and I sat, and I sat. And woe is me, and woe to thee! and then we went to Applebee's, and had ourselves a gradually feeding time.

And then lo and behold! I came back home and did my Latin, and excused my Geometry, for it didn't look like it wanted to be done.And if it wanted to be done, it was well done it wanted, and I cannot cook things. And it would also be bad to burn things, for that is a bigotrous sin of cometual proportions which could perhaps end me up in hell, or even worse, ALONE ON AN ISLAND WITH RICHARD SIMMONS.

Such a thought is an evil one, so I must mollify it from my accosted and sickening mind.

There. It is gone. Gone like a flowing river which has dried up and has been replaced with an unsanitary bathroom whereupon the toilet has been dusted with an enamored amount of desert dust that smells slightly pig.

Yes. Good thing that thorn is gone. Good riddance Richard Simmons, you damn daemon fluenter.

Mitch needs to get a job. But all job and no work make Mitch a sad boy. So Mitch sit around and wish he wasn't so lazy and uncaring, but he cannot, so Mitch still sit around and do nothing as parents tell Mitch eh needs to get a job over and over again in an endless apostrophe to a stone that shall not be moved from its place.

For it is my perciousss. And it is my unawares affliction.

We have a debate due of the red scare in History in a few days. I also need to ganderalize a column from space, and give it its own little colony, as well as its own little color, and it needs to be done well by ThirstyDay. That's Thursday to you Gnomes.

This post is splattered eggs on toast. The toasty toast that is so terrifingiffical.

Anyways, on to the acertained mootion of this post:

Go here to this amazing place whereupon there is exalted poetry of a mostly salty and sexual explicit demeanor.

That is all.

Keep eating your dead tissue you maggots and I shall do the same.

Hark to me! we shall eat the feces of our youth together; wherefore we shall grow wings to flies, angels in a beatific relic.
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