Shut the fuck up about the Prozac: I fucking ran out of it, okay? And then I was too fucking depressed to pick more up. Why don’t you go talk to the fucks who work behind the counter at fucking Rite-Aid? Fuck. And while you’re at it, get my fucking ambien, too: if I don’t get some fucking sleep I might get . . . oh, a bit cranky.
And I’m not cranky. Or, if I were, it would be justified because of how fucking annoying and stupid people are. I mean, how much patience am I supposed to have with the idiots in this world? I’m boycotting my fucking species, at least for the rest of the whole goddamned fucking night.
(One suspects that the boycott is mutual, of course.)
Furthermore, why aren’t I on the fucking blogroll over here? Fuck.
(Naptime? If I can swing it. I guess I should try.)
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I could mail you a couple 20mg.
Remember the words of Joseph Stalin: An angry man is only angry until he’s shot. Then he’s dead.
I’m not sure what that means, but I hope you obtain your drugs.
I’ll bet you do, Ling.
Cursing is the vain attempt of a weak mind to express itsself forcefully. Nuf said.
It all becomes clear when you click the link.
satire n. A literary work in which human vice or folly is attacked through irony, derision, or wit.
Hey! I made a link. Queen of the innertubes.