Tonight was excellent.
Basically, it was a bunch of people yelling and murdering each other.
Throw in some cookies, a shit load of inside jokes and some dramatic narration, you have a fucking hilarious night.
Oh, and me and Siobhan were married, and immediately we were brutally murdered.
In the house of a Mormon.
I love my friends.
Salvador Dali had an older brother who was also named Salvador. He died at a young age before his younger sibling was born.
(via)
My blog has been really impersonal lately.
Is impersonal even a word?
It is now.
My brain/ social life have just been dead lately.
Mainly because my main instinct to everyone right now is to punch them.
Or run them over with a riding lawn mower.
Or feed them to a pack of wild martian wildabeasts.
Or a combination of the three.
So as soon as that mellows out, I’m back to normal.
In the mean time,
Often, I find myself describing my mood with inanimate objects.
Today for example, I feel like a loaf of bread.
I don’t even know.
I’m sure somewhere in my brain there’s a sane thought. Somewhere.
I had a conversation with my mom about my mediocrity tonight.
And she just refuses to accept it.
Seriously, I’m so painfully average, it’s disgusting.
Typical 85 average, the usual teenage tastes in everything, and an aptitude for absolutely nothing.
I’m not even interested in anything anymore.
I’m so grossly apathetic, I hate it.
Despite all of this, my parents still expect excellence.
My dad wants me to be some groundbreaking rocket scientist or something, and my mom wants me to be the next Tracey Ullman.
They don’t realize that if I even grow to become the icon of mediocre America that I’m destined to be, I’ll be a lonely cat lady working the same monotonous day job until the day she dies.
I have no potential.
I’ve come to the point where I’ve stopped even hoping to find some.
Now the hard part is getting everyone else to.
