Paint it black and take it back

Blah. I've got required guidance interview thingie thirty minutes from now. I wonder if she'd interpret my near-desperate urge to park my ass in the shithole as a psychological disorder.

But, ma'am, seriously, it's, like, from the fishball I, like, made tusok from the manong at the kanto.

Yes, of course. And how do you feel about this?

*

Grow up, bitches and asswipes and fuckwads. Teenagers scare the living shit out of you, yea?

*

What I learned last night from the pundits at my table:

1) JK Rowling and her Harry Potter series ruined the genre/realm/vortex of children's literature forever. In relation to that, she's a knock-off of Miss Ursula over there and is just a baaaaad substitute for Tolkien.

2) Something about faith and reason which whizzed by my brain because it was running on two hours of sleep and pure irritation regarding other matters. Basta. Sa akin lang . . . (goes off to talk to a lethal Mentos and Gerard Way, the only people who *sob* will listen.)

3) It does a seventeen-year-old good to act like a goddamned seventeen-year-old once in a while. Crank up the volume on that MP3 player, will ya, and bang yer head to the beat of angsty bands like Paramore, Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance. Stare off into space during the car ride home and curl up into the fetal position on the floor of your bedroom.

4) In relation to that, My Chemical Romance is the worst possible band daw ever. Angst, yuck.

Ah. It feels so rewarding to be in the presence of such learned and opinionated people. Makes you want to serve your brains, bits and pieces of your heart and a whole lotta chunk of your soul in a platter, with a fork, and some ice-cold beer on the side.

I mean this with no sarcasm whatsoever.

*

No one loves me. Boo-fucking-hoo.
*Off to stare off into space and make laslas the wrists.*
And I don't care.
*More laslas of the wrists, while MCR's Famous Last Words plays on player.*
I know you're gay, coz you listen to Coldplay!