![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Dec. 17th, 2001 10:00 pmThe Uk Trivia Quiz room is full. So I'm fucked. What ever will I do without my America Online chatrooms to entertain me. My nails are getting too long to type sufficiently fast enough to win anyway. Oh, blast.
My father is watching Ally Mcbeal not twenty feet away from me. When she is not bemoaning her pitiful existance, she delights with various song and dance debacles. Fortunately I do not so much witness these spontaneous episodes of art as I experience them aurally. Still this is enough to make one want to kill herself.
When I am not wanting to end my own life Monday nights at 9:00 pm pacific standard time, I am wanting to bludgeon customers to death. Lately I've had fantasies of literally sitting atop their chests, pinning them down with my knees, and beating them to a fucking bloody pulp with a broken bottle of Gordon's Vodka and a bag of ice.
Merry Christmas.
My father is watching Ally Mcbeal not twenty feet away from me. When she is not bemoaning her pitiful existance, she delights with various song and dance debacles. Fortunately I do not so much witness these spontaneous episodes of art as I experience them aurally. Still this is enough to make one want to kill herself.
When I am not wanting to end my own life Monday nights at 9:00 pm pacific standard time, I am wanting to bludgeon customers to death. Lately I've had fantasies of literally sitting atop their chests, pinning them down with my knees, and beating them to a fucking bloody pulp with a broken bottle of Gordon's Vodka and a bag of ice.
Merry Christmas.
