So I'm doing my best to stay awake and actually complete the work I've got pending for tomorrow morning when I hear a knock on the door at the bottom of the stairs. To my surprise, it's Little Miss Tripping Balls holding a giant quart of Rita's fucking Cherry Italian Ices, gratis, for both myself and Third Party, who is sleeping off the fatigue of having to deal with a weekend visit from their vile troglodytic parents.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with 12 pounds of cherry-flavored shaved ice? Is this some sort of god damned joke? I've got a fucking mini fridge. The freezer compartment is about the size of a stick of butter; these things were designed for dorm rooms for the love of Zombie Hipster Jesus (he was nailed to a cross before it was cool).
I wanted to dump it on her god damned head and wipe that smug fucking look off her face. Does she think we can be bought by god damned crunchy water with some red food coloring thrown in? I need at least 2 pints of Stephen Colbert's Americone Dream to even consider any favors. Hell, if she really wanted to get on my good side, maybe she could clean out the fucking sink downstairs in the kitchen that's teeming with mother fucking fruit flies because
of the rotting corn cobs and tomatoes and Flying Spaghetti Monster-knows what else rotting in the bowels of their plumbing systems.
White-hot rage burns itself out quickly, however, and I find myself embracing the annoyed apathy expressed by our good friend the bubo virgianus here:
I need to find my fucking Xanax.