Forward To Death

Oh, Jello! You made me a cake for my birthday?! 
That's fantastic, darling, thank-you!
NOW LET'S SMEAR IT ALL OVER EACH OTHER.

I don't need your way of life
I can't stand your attitudes
I can do without your strife
I don't need this fucking world
I don't need this fucking world


It seems so unreal to me
So much hate and so much pity
I can't take another day
It's such a bore
It gets me really sore
I don't need this fucking world
I don't need this fucking world


This world brings me down
Gag with every breath
This world brings me down
I'm looking forward to death
I'm looking forward to death


~ Dead Kennedys
(cheerful birthday lyrics)


Here’s some funny and NOT-so-funny shit that has happened on my birthday!

The funny thing is that I have discovered that my sweet little blog here will actually come up FIRST on a Google search! Haha! Isn’t that awesome? I discovered this from Feedjit, when the most random country that I have Never even heard of (and can’t actually pronounce) showed up, and I thought I’d look them up and see what could possibly have brought them to my blog.

And that’s when I discovered the one phrase in the WORLD that will bring up my blog FIRST in a Google search.

That phrase, ladies, gentleman, fags and their hags (I miss being your fag hag, Klint; the Posh to your Becks), is...

”Marine Fuck A Donkey”.

Beautiful, isn’t it? *sob* I’ve never been so proud. And that includes the time that I missed the pole, and fell off the stage.

I am an ARTISTE, BITCHES.

Thank-you, thank-you, everyone, for this honor. Muah! Muah! Gosh, I don't know what to say!

Oh no, wait, yes I do. I'd like to thank everyone who contributed to fucking me in the head throughout my life, making me into the complete lunatic that I am today. I hate you all.

The NOT-so-funny  thing that happened today (SOMEBODY in trouble) was over coffee this morning, as M and I were looking at my blog before he had to leave for work. When we came across the picture I had posted last night, of my ‘Angry Barbie Face', M put out his hand and stopped me from scrolling down any further.

“Hey, what happened in that picture?” he asked.

“What do you mean, ‘what happened’?” I asked him, surprised.

“Well, you look...you look kinda...” he trailed off.

“I look kinda mean and tough?” I prompted. “I look angry and not-to-be-fucked-with?”

“No,” he said sheepishly. “You look like Joan Rivers, with a hundred bee stings in her lips.”

“What?!” I exclaimed. “I do not, I look mean and tough! You’re scared of me! Terrified!”

“Mmmm,” he agreed, and snuggled into my neck.

“You ARE,” I wailed.

“Yes, I AM, muffin,” he said, in his best ‘humor the retard’ voice, and got up to get dressed.

“Yeah, that’s right, buddy,” I muttered gruffly as he walked away. “Keep walking.”

Grrrrrr, I sulked, as he walked over to his dresser and started rummaging through his drawers. Nice bum, I reconsidered a moment later, as I watched him pull on his jeans.

Anyway, I thought I would come on here and let everyone know that bees have NOT, in fact, stung me viciously in the lips. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

So, you know. If you have sent some sort of emergency medical attention, please call them off.

Unless they’re HOT.

It IS my birthday, after all.

Me, looking normal...ish.
As close as I get.