Yes, I'm still alive. Yeah, I'm aware I've barely been blogging. It's not that I'm lazy, it's just that all this procrastinating I've been doing lately is really getting in the way of, well, pretty much everything else I've been doing lately. Make of that what you will.
First things first, I quit my job at the shithole. Oops, I mean dollarstore. This decision was primarily based on two specific facts:
Fact 1: I'm moving soon and don't feel like taking the metro every day to work. I'd much rather find another job somewhere closer to where I'm going to be staying.
Fact 2: I was working at the fucking dollarstore.
And the restaurant I was washing dishes at on the weekend is closing until springtime, which puts me into the "unemployed" demographic once again. I saved up what will hopefully be enough money to last me until I get another job, but this time the pressure is on because I actually have rent to pay now. At the moment I'm sort of in between two addresses, but once I get a truck to haul all my stuff over there, I'm going to be living with my cousin near the Plateau in Montréal. For those of you unfamiliar with the Plateau, it's like downtown and a rich residential area fucked and the Plateau popped out, only with more hippies and a big fucking mountain right in the middle.
Anyway, painting my room is taking much longer than I had expected (this is mainly due to previously mentioned chronic procrastination) but once it's done I'll finally be out of this sketchy neighborhood and in a somewhat sketchier neighborhood. Oh well. No amount of sketchiness is going to stop me from getting out of this goddamn house.
Well that's enough blabbing about me for a while. I'd like to blab about something else for a bit. For example: What the FUCK is up with all these hurricanes? It's like every time I turn on the news another expert is shitting their pants over the next storm that's going to whoop the Gulf Coast's proverbial ass. First, Katrina comes and destroys New Orleans like it was some kind of five-year-old's sandcastle I smashed at the beach last summer. Then, Mother Nature gives America just enough time to blame Michael Brown before hurricane Rita comes out of fucking nowhere and pulls the same shit again. And now there's Wilma, showing up late to the party but making up for it by being the strongest one so far.
Now I know this is a horrible tragedy for most of the people affected by it, and to laugh at them during their moment of need would be pointlessly rubbing their faces in it. But I also know I'd be a liar if I said I didn't snicker when I first heard New Orleans had been turned into Atlantis. I mean, it's no secret that I don't care much for America. Note that I said America, and not Americans. America is a country, Americans are just human beings that had the misfortune of being born in America. So when America gets put in its place by something that nobody has any control over, I'm happy.
About a week or two after Katrina hit I was watching TV and a commercial comes on raising money for hurricane victims. No big deal, just a concerned organization trying to help out those who need it. Then somebody had to run their mouth and include something in the commercial about "together, we can prove human nature is stronger than Mother Nature". Oh really? I was under the impression that the people who thought that in the first place are the ones that now need rescuing from their rooftops after Mother Nature coughed in their general direction. If human nature is stronger then why isn't there a hurricane death toll? Where are all the organizations trying to raise money for hurricanes damaged by American buildings? That's right, there are none because Mother Nature could kick humanity's ass without even trying. They should have just said "human nature is stronger than God" as long as they were going to start claiming superiority over fictional characters that represent the unexplained and unpredictable.
Speaking of unpredictable, I predict another terrorist attack in the states sometime before Bush's presidency ends. With the country spending tons of money left and right trying to rebuild a city on this side of the world and trying to finish a liberation/war/constitution/democracy/etc on the other side, the terrorists would have to be pretty ignorant to not realize this would be a great time to strike. Since I know someone out there will misinterpret what they just read as me condoning and/or inciting terrorism, I'd like to point out that from a terrorist's point of view, it would make sense to attack soon. Not to mention that Bush is less liked every day, meaning any retaliation to an attack would be highly criticized and most likely somewhat lackluster due to lack of two crucial elements: public support and good old bling-bling.
I feel sort of like an idiot ranting about things that don't concern my country at all, but can you really blame me? If I was to write about all the exciting things that happen in Canada... well then I wouldn't be writing about very much now would I? Oh yeah, I went there. The closest Canada has had to a disaster lately is a plane going off the runway in Toronto, and nobody even died. Not even one old fart who couldn't handle the suspense and croaked of heart failure. Nothing. Canada is so boring we have to watch other country's news and get outraged because our own news puts us to sleep.
Okay well I'm getting tired of typing now so I'm gonna go somewhere else for a while.
Thursday, October 20
Thursday, September 1
Hooray for nature
I went to the Biodome last Sunday. Here are some pretty pictures. Enjoy.
Not pictured: Several dozen out-of-focus shots of various animals, at least ten closeups of my hand because I don't know how to use a camera, a fourteen dollar plush snake I bought during a drug-induced moment of spontaneity, Pauly Shore.
Not pictured: Several dozen out-of-focus shots of various animals, at least ten closeups of my hand because I don't know how to use a camera, a fourteen dollar plush snake I bought during a drug-induced moment of spontaneity, Pauly Shore.
Saturday, July 23
I like money
As some of you may already know, I got a job a month and a half ago. Please, save your applause until I'm done. A little explanation is in order here.
Last year I took Computer Science at Dawson College. I was pretty psyched to be going to college for three years to study computers after putting up with the five years of bullshit and bare minimum academic self-application known throughout the world as "high school". Pretty psyched until I realized it was more or less a more complex version of high school but with many more people and that computer science was, in fact, really fucking boring.
Sure, I might enjoy playing videogames and browsing the internet a little more than the average person. Sure, I've been to around a dozen or so LAN parties, in which anywhere from dozens to hundreds of like-minded geeks gather for a weekend to play network games and swap porn while keeping their personal hygiene to a bare minumum. Sure, I'd probably throw myself out of the nearest window if I was ever forced to live without a computer. Imagine my surprise when my computer lab becomes one of the last places I want to be. Sometime during exams in December I get the brilliant idea to just stop going to school. No calling the school to let them know. No backup plans. No bothering to go in and at least finish the semester so if ever I decide to return I have some credits already accounted for. Just no more school.
Looking back on it now it was probably the most immature and unprepared way of dealing with things I could have chosen, but I'll be damned if I can do anything about it now. Anyway, from December up until June I pretty much laid around the house, occasionally going outside to confirm that there still was an outside. I told a lot of people I was looking for a job but in reality I was hoping that a job was looking for me while I took it easy.
Just over a month ago I got really tired of not having any money, which as we all know, implies not having any fun. I handed out a bunch of CVs in my neighborhood and lo and behold, I'm now an official employee of Dollarama Inc. In case you don't know, Dollarama is a large chain of dollarstores in Canada. Of course, being a multi-million dollar corporation and all, they pay us minimum wage to do the work that nobody in their right mind would ever want to do if they really had a choice. But seeing as how I'm a seventeen-year-old dropout with just enough French to get by at a retail job and very little motivation to make the world a better place or stay in school long enough to learn how to do so, I can't really complain.
Wait. Yes I can.
First complaint: customers. Working at a dollarstore in Verdun (residential, relatively low-class, mainly French neighborhood in Montreal) has made me the slightest bit jealous of corporate slaves who sit in a cubicle all day long. I mean, sure, they're essentially trapped in a prison designed to look like an office, but at least they don't have to interact with the general public. Whether it's the crazy-looking hippie type that asks me where a certain item is, then complains to me that we don't have it until I apologize and make a run for it, then walks up and down the aisles muttering to herself under her breath, or the fat, slightly inbred-looking forty-something year old man wearing a wifebeater and cutoff shorts that cut off somewhere near where the top of my boxers would be that reeks of alcohol and cigarettes no matter what time he's in the store, the customers at a dollarstore aren't exactly the kind of people you enjoy interacting with. To be fair, not everyone that shops at dollarstores are crazy or stinky or scary, but the normal ones are the ones that don't need any help finding what they're there for. The only way I can deal with the customers is by convincing myself that the more of them that I have to put up with, the happier I will be when I eventually get a job somewhere where the average IQ of the clientele is higher than the tax rate.
In addition to the crazies that speak French or English, there's the customers that barely speak a word of either. They might be crazy as well for all I know, but I have enough trouble trying to figure out what they're saying let alone judging their IQ. I don't hold it against them that they don't know very much English or French, but when they get frustrated that I can't understand what they're saying, I start to get annoyed. The sounds coming out of their mouths barely resemble a language to me, let alone one I understand, and they get visibly angry when I can't keep up. Like the old couple that, after I had to figure out how to explain to them that the store was closed (pointing to your wrist seems to be universal for this), starts trying to have a conversation with me in Colombian. Unfortunately I don't know how to say "Please leave me alone and never speak to me again" in Colombian, so I was limited to fake smiles and nodding my head, followed soon after by walking in the immediate direction of "away".
I'm usually the one who sweeps the floors before closing up, which I don't mind that much. Sweeping by itself is no big deal, but seeing how much garbage people leave on the floor is. Apparently the floor of the store resembles a garbage can to most people, hence the tons of receipts and empty coffee cups and chocolate bar wrappers and cigarette butts all over the place at the end of the day. Just once I'd like to meet someone whose idea of cleaning up after themselves isn't limited to "put your garbage where it's someone else's problem as opposed to yours". And not only do they empty their own pockets onto the floor, they come in and take items off the shelves, then decide they don't want to spend their hard-earned dollar on it and put it back somewhere else in the store. Is it that fucking hard to walk back to wherever you picked it up and put it back? Why must you take chocolate bars from the food aisle and put them in the candle aisle? Spoons in the school aisle? Batteries next to the tuna fish? Don't you realize this takes away from the amount of time I have to help you find your spray bottle or curtain rod or video cassette or whateverthefuck it is you're too busy to just look for yourself?
When I'm not being harassed by customers or cleaning up after them, I'm either in the back doing inventory or placing boxes in the aisles so the other employees can place the items in them on the shelves. At all times, Dollarama plays the radio over the store's PA system to help soothe our nerves and give us something to listen to while we slave away. Did I say soothe our nerves? Because I meant to say drive us absolutely fucking insane by playing the same five or six songs over and over and over and over and over until Jacob slashes his wrists with his exacto knife and welcomes the sweet embrace of death.
Two days ago I did the improbable and went out and got myself a second job on the weekends. Now after reading this blog you might be asking yourself, why on Earth would I do such a thing? Why would I purposely go out and get another job which will just exhaust myself even further and take away the few free hours I still have per week? What possible good could that serve? Am I a fucking idiot or somethi-
Last year I took Computer Science at Dawson College. I was pretty psyched to be going to college for three years to study computers after putting up with the five years of bullshit and bare minimum academic self-application known throughout the world as "high school". Pretty psyched until I realized it was more or less a more complex version of high school but with many more people and that computer science was, in fact, really fucking boring.
Sure, I might enjoy playing videogames and browsing the internet a little more than the average person. Sure, I've been to around a dozen or so LAN parties, in which anywhere from dozens to hundreds of like-minded geeks gather for a weekend to play network games and swap porn while keeping their personal hygiene to a bare minumum. Sure, I'd probably throw myself out of the nearest window if I was ever forced to live without a computer. Imagine my surprise when my computer lab becomes one of the last places I want to be. Sometime during exams in December I get the brilliant idea to just stop going to school. No calling the school to let them know. No backup plans. No bothering to go in and at least finish the semester so if ever I decide to return I have some credits already accounted for. Just no more school.
Looking back on it now it was probably the most immature and unprepared way of dealing with things I could have chosen, but I'll be damned if I can do anything about it now. Anyway, from December up until June I pretty much laid around the house, occasionally going outside to confirm that there still was an outside. I told a lot of people I was looking for a job but in reality I was hoping that a job was looking for me while I took it easy.
Just over a month ago I got really tired of not having any money, which as we all know, implies not having any fun. I handed out a bunch of CVs in my neighborhood and lo and behold, I'm now an official employee of Dollarama Inc. In case you don't know, Dollarama is a large chain of dollarstores in Canada. Of course, being a multi-million dollar corporation and all, they pay us minimum wage to do the work that nobody in their right mind would ever want to do if they really had a choice. But seeing as how I'm a seventeen-year-old dropout with just enough French to get by at a retail job and very little motivation to make the world a better place or stay in school long enough to learn how to do so, I can't really complain.
Wait. Yes I can.
First complaint: customers. Working at a dollarstore in Verdun (residential, relatively low-class, mainly French neighborhood in Montreal) has made me the slightest bit jealous of corporate slaves who sit in a cubicle all day long. I mean, sure, they're essentially trapped in a prison designed to look like an office, but at least they don't have to interact with the general public. Whether it's the crazy-looking hippie type that asks me where a certain item is, then complains to me that we don't have it until I apologize and make a run for it, then walks up and down the aisles muttering to herself under her breath, or the fat, slightly inbred-looking forty-something year old man wearing a wifebeater and cutoff shorts that cut off somewhere near where the top of my boxers would be that reeks of alcohol and cigarettes no matter what time he's in the store, the customers at a dollarstore aren't exactly the kind of people you enjoy interacting with. To be fair, not everyone that shops at dollarstores are crazy or stinky or scary, but the normal ones are the ones that don't need any help finding what they're there for. The only way I can deal with the customers is by convincing myself that the more of them that I have to put up with, the happier I will be when I eventually get a job somewhere where the average IQ of the clientele is higher than the tax rate.
In addition to the crazies that speak French or English, there's the customers that barely speak a word of either. They might be crazy as well for all I know, but I have enough trouble trying to figure out what they're saying let alone judging their IQ. I don't hold it against them that they don't know very much English or French, but when they get frustrated that I can't understand what they're saying, I start to get annoyed. The sounds coming out of their mouths barely resemble a language to me, let alone one I understand, and they get visibly angry when I can't keep up. Like the old couple that, after I had to figure out how to explain to them that the store was closed (pointing to your wrist seems to be universal for this), starts trying to have a conversation with me in Colombian. Unfortunately I don't know how to say "Please leave me alone and never speak to me again" in Colombian, so I was limited to fake smiles and nodding my head, followed soon after by walking in the immediate direction of "away".
I'm usually the one who sweeps the floors before closing up, which I don't mind that much. Sweeping by itself is no big deal, but seeing how much garbage people leave on the floor is. Apparently the floor of the store resembles a garbage can to most people, hence the tons of receipts and empty coffee cups and chocolate bar wrappers and cigarette butts all over the place at the end of the day. Just once I'd like to meet someone whose idea of cleaning up after themselves isn't limited to "put your garbage where it's someone else's problem as opposed to yours". And not only do they empty their own pockets onto the floor, they come in and take items off the shelves, then decide they don't want to spend their hard-earned dollar on it and put it back somewhere else in the store. Is it that fucking hard to walk back to wherever you picked it up and put it back? Why must you take chocolate bars from the food aisle and put them in the candle aisle? Spoons in the school aisle? Batteries next to the tuna fish? Don't you realize this takes away from the amount of time I have to help you find your spray bottle or curtain rod or video cassette or whateverthefuck it is you're too busy to just look for yourself?
When I'm not being harassed by customers or cleaning up after them, I'm either in the back doing inventory or placing boxes in the aisles so the other employees can place the items in them on the shelves. At all times, Dollarama plays the radio over the store's PA system to help soothe our nerves and give us something to listen to while we slave away. Did I say soothe our nerves? Because I meant to say drive us absolutely fucking insane by playing the same five or six songs over and over and over and over and over until Jacob slashes his wrists with his exacto knife and welcomes the sweet embrace of death.
Two days ago I did the improbable and went out and got myself a second job on the weekends. Now after reading this blog you might be asking yourself, why on Earth would I do such a thing? Why would I purposely go out and get another job which will just exhaust myself even further and take away the few free hours I still have per week? What possible good could that serve? Am I a fucking idiot or somethi-
Monday, May 30
Friday, April 29
Yawn.
Am I the only one who wishes biological clocks came with an instruction manual? I find it's way too easy for my biological clock to get out of sync, but incredibly hard to try and reset it. For a few weeks I've been going to sleep around five in the morning and waking up at five in the afternoon. I'm starting to think my biological clock has some sort of factory defect or something. Falling asleep is like some sort of challenge to me. I lie awake in bed for an average of about two hours per night, and if I try to get to bed by a decent hour I'll just lie there until the sun comes up and sleep through the entire day.
Which brings me to today. I should be asleep right now, but I'm forcing myself to pull an all-nighter so I can get to sleep at a decent hour later tonight. I'm really only writing this blog because it's something to do in the meantime that will keep me awake. I'm highly considering riding the metro around the city for a few hours just because I know it would force me to stay awake. It's sort of a shame that I'm only writing here because there's really nothing else to do, but on the other hand at least I'm writing something. I haven't written much lately, but don't think it's because I don't have anything to say. If anything, it's because I have too much to say. If I were to write down everything that goes through my head I'd never get ANY sleep.
As long as I'm here I might as well say a few things. First off, what's all this I've been hearing about gays not deserving the right to adopt kids? Is this some sort of twisted joke that I'm not in on or something? Just watching a politician openly saying that gays and bisexuals shouldn't be allowed to adopt children with a straight face makes me sick to my fucking stomach. I'm absolutely speechless, in fact. I'd like to state a list of reasons why they should be allowed to, but I don't even see the point in doing so. I honestly cannot understand how anyone could truly think that a person's sexuality should determine their rights. Writing the last three sentences took at least ten minutes because I can't even choose the right words to express myself.
Fuck it. I'm not even going to bother. Just thinking about the pure idiocy and hypocricy of some people makes me want to cry my eyes out. The fact that there are people on this planet who actually believe some of the bullshit they spew under the pretense of being tolerant and caring baffles me beyond words. Knowing that these people are so dedicated to their prejudice that nothing I say will phase them puts me in such a terrible mood that I don't even want to bother any more.
Anyways. Lately I've been getting tons of junk mail from internet vigilantes who thought subscribing my e-mail address to a bunch of newsletters would demonstrate the error of my ways. Congratulations, you've made me spend an extra five seconds checking off a box and clicking "Delete". I will never, ever make fun of anyone again. You've sure showed me a lesson I won't soon forget.
It hasn't been all bad, though. I've received quite a few complimentary e-mails and comments and I'd like to let you know that I appreciate them all. It's always good to have proof that there are others like me who aren't so stuck up on being politically correct and can have a laugh at other people's expense every once in a while. Yes, it is fun to laugh at those who are less fortunate than ourselves. I'm not saying you should make a habit out of it, but I'm not going to jump down your throat when you eventually do it. A lot of people like to argue the fact that I wouldn't like it if others laughed at my misfortune. And you know what, maybe I wouldn't. But that's why it's called misfortune. It sucks. Part of it being misfortune is the fact that people are going to laugh at you. Actually, there's probably nobody on this planet that makes more fun of me than I do. Accepting the fact that others will get a small amount of pleasure from your displeasure makes life a lot easier to go through. I highly recommend it.
Speaking of complimentary e-mails:
Sure, I'll marry your daughter. As soon as you explain to me why your daughter would have to dodge the draft. Maybe it's the same reason you put "mother" in quotation marks? Sorry, I don't swing that way. But at least if I did, I'd have the right to adopt a kid where I live. Whoops. I wasn't supposed to mention that again. There goes my blood pressure.
Well, this has taken up about an hour and twenty minutes which is long enough for me. Before I go I'd like to mention that Michael Jackson was damn sexy back in his prime. He might be a scary, boy-hungry waxface now, but back when he was still black he was the shit, there I said it.
Which brings me to today. I should be asleep right now, but I'm forcing myself to pull an all-nighter so I can get to sleep at a decent hour later tonight. I'm really only writing this blog because it's something to do in the meantime that will keep me awake. I'm highly considering riding the metro around the city for a few hours just because I know it would force me to stay awake. It's sort of a shame that I'm only writing here because there's really nothing else to do, but on the other hand at least I'm writing something. I haven't written much lately, but don't think it's because I don't have anything to say. If anything, it's because I have too much to say. If I were to write down everything that goes through my head I'd never get ANY sleep.
As long as I'm here I might as well say a few things. First off, what's all this I've been hearing about gays not deserving the right to adopt kids? Is this some sort of twisted joke that I'm not in on or something? Just watching a politician openly saying that gays and bisexuals shouldn't be allowed to adopt children with a straight face makes me sick to my fucking stomach. I'm absolutely speechless, in fact. I'd like to state a list of reasons why they should be allowed to, but I don't even see the point in doing so. I honestly cannot understand how anyone could truly think that a person's sexuality should determine their rights. Writing the last three sentences took at least ten minutes because I can't even choose the right words to express myself.
Fuck it. I'm not even going to bother. Just thinking about the pure idiocy and hypocricy of some people makes me want to cry my eyes out. The fact that there are people on this planet who actually believe some of the bullshit they spew under the pretense of being tolerant and caring baffles me beyond words. Knowing that these people are so dedicated to their prejudice that nothing I say will phase them puts me in such a terrible mood that I don't even want to bother any more.
Anyways. Lately I've been getting tons of junk mail from internet vigilantes who thought subscribing my e-mail address to a bunch of newsletters would demonstrate the error of my ways. Congratulations, you've made me spend an extra five seconds checking off a box and clicking "Delete". I will never, ever make fun of anyone again. You've sure showed me a lesson I won't soon forget.
It hasn't been all bad, though. I've received quite a few complimentary e-mails and comments and I'd like to let you know that I appreciate them all. It's always good to have proof that there are others like me who aren't so stuck up on being politically correct and can have a laugh at other people's expense every once in a while. Yes, it is fun to laugh at those who are less fortunate than ourselves. I'm not saying you should make a habit out of it, but I'm not going to jump down your throat when you eventually do it. A lot of people like to argue the fact that I wouldn't like it if others laughed at my misfortune. And you know what, maybe I wouldn't. But that's why it's called misfortune. It sucks. Part of it being misfortune is the fact that people are going to laugh at you. Actually, there's probably nobody on this planet that makes more fun of me than I do. Accepting the fact that others will get a small amount of pleasure from your displeasure makes life a lot easier to go through. I highly recommend it.
Speaking of complimentary e-mails:
I am a 53 year old "Mother" from Texas. Would you marry my 21 year old daughter? She may need to live in Canada when the US gets the draft again. I really enjoyed Terri's Blog. If I need a Blog about me or any other family member, I will contact you. RKAssuming this isn't a joke, which it most likely is:
Sure, I'll marry your daughter. As soon as you explain to me why your daughter would have to dodge the draft. Maybe it's the same reason you put "mother" in quotation marks? Sorry, I don't swing that way. But at least if I did, I'd have the right to adopt a kid where I live. Whoops. I wasn't supposed to mention that again. There goes my blood pressure.
Well, this has taken up about an hour and twenty minutes which is long enough for me. Before I go I'd like to mention that Michael Jackson was damn sexy back in his prime. He might be a scary, boy-hungry waxface now, but back when he was still black he was the shit, there I said it.
Friday, April 1
It's about time.
In case you haven't already heard, Terri's status has finally been changed from Basically Dead to Dead. I'd like to think that with her passing away we'd be hearing the last of it but now that she's a martyr I don't think that's going to happen.
It really is a shame that despite the cold hard truth that every living thing must someday die, there are people that just can't deal with the concept of death and choose instead to cling to anything they can pass off as life.
Rest in peace, Terri.
Thursday, March 31
Durrrrr
You are a fucking asshole that needs to be castrated and burned alive because that's the only kind of living you deserve you low life bag of shit. I am glad they took her off the tube, and those religious assholes can shove it but you are more infuriating then even Tom Delay. I know you will find enjoyment from recieving these kinds of comments, I just wanted to remind you that you ARE the scum of the earth.
it really worries me that there are people like you fucking morons in existence. too bad i believe that all human life is sacred, because if i didn't i swear i'd get rid of as many of you inconsiderate bastards as possible. you're all bigger wastes of air and space than teri schiavo is, i'll tell you that much. find a better use of your time than making fun of a brain damaged, suffering woman...or burn in hell for all eternity. hey kids, your choice
yall are some fucked up people, making fun of a crippled person, espcially the jackass who created this blog
You guys think you are funny making fun of her, Fuck you retarded assholes, whoever write this website is probably live in a retarded house or will be,
If this website is an indicator of the state of society, then humanity is done for. Enjoy mocking the death of a fellow human being while you can. When it's your turn to meet your Maker, I can only hope that you will not be shown the same heartless, soulless lack of respect for human life that you have displayed here.
Terri has more brain activity than the sick creep that started this blog.
You fucktards that leave comments, degrading Terri, I have one wish for you, that being, you suffer the same fate with one of children. You are nothing but cowardly, moronic, imbeciles, who have the bad taste of breathing the same air as her. Easier solution for you all is go and commit suicide then the world would truely be rid of useless humans.
I am DISGUSTED by the sarcasm and ridicule of the blog. The blogger claims to support her, yet is making fun of her, ridiculing her. The author of this post should go to hell!
HOW CAN PEOPLE NOT ONLY WANT TO KILL SOMEONE, BUT ALSO IS LAUGHING THEIR ASSES OFF AT THE THOUGHT OF SOMEONE DYING! EVEN IF IT WERE FOR SOMETHING GOOD I WOULDN'T BE LAUGHING MY FUCKING ASS OFF AT IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1111111
I guess some people just can't take a joke.
Friday, March 25
Why won't you die already
I'm so fucking sick of seeing your face everywhere I look. I can't stand hearing your name every time I turn the TV on. There was probably a time when I might have given a shit about who you are but that time is long gone. Now I just wish you would die so the world can move on and shut the fuck up.
Yes, Terri Schiavo, I'm talking to you. I don't really know why I am, though. I mean, you're just a lump of flesh with a name by now. The only thing that keeps you on the CNN.com front page rather than the obituaries page is the fact that your heart is still beating. I bet if you could talk (or blink Morse code) you'd tell everyone to shut their whiny mouths and let you die properly. None of this half-dead half-alive shit. You must want to climb into your big spacious coffin by now and relax.
But you can't. Your parents aren't going to let you go that easy. They'd much rather ensure that the rest of your life consists of staring at the opposite wall of your hospital room. They say you're now down to your last hours and something has to be done immediately. Well I've got news for them: Your "last hours" have already been prolonged to about fifteen years.
Let's talk about that for a while. Try spending ten straight minutes doing absolutely nothing but what your body does involuntarily. No talking, no moving, no smiling, no laughing, no crying, no scratching yourself, no turning your head to change the view. You can blink, but that's pushing it and you should consider yourself lucky.
Now, do it for FIFTEEN YEARS. Yeah. That's what I thought.
If I was your husband I'd get you secretly stuffed and leave the country. Your parents probably wouldn't notice a difference for at least a week. That'd give me plenty of time to get far, far away from them and anybody who thinks you're going to recover from a fifteen year coma that's left a big puddle of spinal fluid where your cerebral cortex should be. Far away from anybody who thinks you're anything more than a poster child for euthanasia. And far, FAR away from the shithead who decided that starving someone to death is better way to euthanize someone than a quick and relatively painless prick in the arm.
But, then again, there might not be anywhere far enough on this planet. I'd probably have to invest millions into getting myself launched into space where I can finally get away from all those people. And you know what, Terri? I don't have millions of dollars. So just fucking die already.
Yes, Terri Schiavo, I'm talking to you. I don't really know why I am, though. I mean, you're just a lump of flesh with a name by now. The only thing that keeps you on the CNN.com front page rather than the obituaries page is the fact that your heart is still beating. I bet if you could talk (or blink Morse code) you'd tell everyone to shut their whiny mouths and let you die properly. None of this half-dead half-alive shit. You must want to climb into your big spacious coffin by now and relax.
But you can't. Your parents aren't going to let you go that easy. They'd much rather ensure that the rest of your life consists of staring at the opposite wall of your hospital room. They say you're now down to your last hours and something has to be done immediately. Well I've got news for them: Your "last hours" have already been prolonged to about fifteen years.
Let's talk about that for a while. Try spending ten straight minutes doing absolutely nothing but what your body does involuntarily. No talking, no moving, no smiling, no laughing, no crying, no scratching yourself, no turning your head to change the view. You can blink, but that's pushing it and you should consider yourself lucky.
Now, do it for FIFTEEN YEARS. Yeah. That's what I thought.
If I was your husband I'd get you secretly stuffed and leave the country. Your parents probably wouldn't notice a difference for at least a week. That'd give me plenty of time to get far, far away from them and anybody who thinks you're going to recover from a fifteen year coma that's left a big puddle of spinal fluid where your cerebral cortex should be. Far away from anybody who thinks you're anything more than a poster child for euthanasia. And far, FAR away from the shithead who decided that starving someone to death is better way to euthanize someone than a quick and relatively painless prick in the arm.
But, then again, there might not be anywhere far enough on this planet. I'd probably have to invest millions into getting myself launched into space where I can finally get away from all those people. And you know what, Terri? I don't have millions of dollars. So just fucking die already.
Thursday, March 10
Wednesday, March 9
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