Disposable Teens

Yay! School!

I'm a black rainbow, and I'm an ape of god
I've got a face that's made for violence upon it
I'm a teen distortion, survived abortion
A rebel from the waist down


I wanna thank you Mom, I wanna thank you Dad
For bringing this fucking world to a bitter end
I never hated your one true god
But the god of the people I hated


~ Marilyn Manson


Argh! My Teenaged Fan Club took it up a notch on Saturday. The little fuckers.

At the sound of the door chiming, I came out of the office that stands behind the front counter and discovered the three of them waiting at my desk. “Good morning, boys,” I said pleasantly.

“Good morning,” they said in unison.

“What can I do for you today?” I said when they didn’t offer anything else.

“I am here for my TAAAAAttoo,” said the tallest one.

“Oh right,” I nodded uber-professionally. “You were going to bring me $1,500 today. Or was it Euros?”

“Ah, yes,” he nodded too. “My bank card wasn’t working this morning. Ah ha, ha.”

“That’s too bad,” I commiserated. “Well, maybe tomorrow.”

They picked up some tattoo magazines and started humming and haaing over the pictures inside. “Yes, I like this one,” the shorter black kid said as he leafed through the pages of gorgeous tattooed girls. “And this one. And this one.”

They came across a page that showed twelve monthly covers of the magazine, all of which were girls in bikinis showing off their tattoos.

Their eyes bulged. “Is that you?” the muslim kid asked, pointing to a busty blond.

“No,” I shook my head.

“This one?” Another big boobed, tattooed girl.

“Nope.”

“She’s that one,” the tall kid said, and pointed to a topless girl with black hair, covering her enormous boobs with her hands.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I snorted. “Anyway, guys, it’s always nice to see you, but I gotta get back to work.” And I motioned towards the door.

“Can I have a hug?” the shorter black kid asked.

The other two looked up expectantly. “Me too!”

“No, you cannot have a hug,” I said, exasperated.

“Why not?” Muslim kid asked.

“Because I can’t go around hugging teenaged boys,” I said. “I’ll get in trouble.”

“Okay, can I have a handshake, then?” Shorty asked me and held out his hand.

I moved out from behind the desk. “Yes, you can have a handshake,” I said and reached out to meet his outstretched hand.

As soon as my hand met his, he pulled me towards him, then threw his arms around me in a hug. I squeaked in protest and tried to pull away but then the other two stepped up and threw their arms around me too. The Muslim kid even had the bloody cheek to rest his head on my chest, right in my cleavage.

Eventually they let me go. I scurried back behind the desk and pointed to the door. “GoodBYE, boys,” I said.

They were busy giggling and high fiving each other. “Bye, Tattoo Girl,” they sang and pushed each other through the door.

I turned around to find my manager there, grinning at me. “There’s only so much of that that’s gonna happen,” she said pointedly.

“I know,” I said sheepishly, and she walked into the office again.

I heard a knocking and looked up. My Teenaged Fan Club was waving to me through the glass door.

I rolled my eyes and followed my manager back into the office in shamed silence.

The cheeky little fuckers. I can't believe they got me.




.

She's Melting On Me Like Cotton Candy

Isn't he the cutest thing you've ever seen?
I just wanna eat him up!

Her heart shivers in my hand
She's melting on me like cotton candy
I make the faces that make you cry
I want you more when you're afraid of 
My disease, disease is draining me 
Anymore you're not so "pretty please" 
Disease, disease is draining me
I want you more when you're afraid of me


~ Marilyn Manson, "Sweet Tooth"



  During Halloween at the tattoo shop, we filled our lollipop bowl with extra candies for the customers to snack on. Usually it was only picked through when customers came in with their kids, or when the friends of our teenaged clientele would happen upon the bowl while they were waiting for their friend to get pierced.

But the biggest fans of our Halloween candy bowl was this gaggle of pubescent teenaged boys that hang out at the strip mall in which we are located. I used to smile benignly and offer them the bowl, and they would each gleefully take a few candies and trot triumphantly out of the store.

That is, until last week. Three of the teenaged boys came in last Friday just as I opened the doors for business at the bright, disgustingly ungodly hour of 12 noon. I recognized the two black kids from earlier candy excursions, but the third one, a cheeky Muslim kid, was a new addition.

I was busy at the back of the store when they came in, washing my mug in one of the three metal sinks along the side wall of the shop.

“Can we have some candy?” they called from the front, standing on tiptoe to see me over the countertop.

“Sure,” I said, dumping some soap into my coffee mug.

“Yesssss!” they shouted, and the three of them bolted over to the candy bowl.

I watched them as they each dug a hand into the bowl and pulled out as much candy as they could possibly hold, then stuff it into their jacket pockets. I rolled my eyes. That was a bit much, I thought with a smirk.

They they all reached into the bowl again.

“Hey, whoa!” I yelled from the back of the store, and they immediately started grabbing and cramming candy as quickly as they could.

“Hey!” I said again. “That’s enough, guys.”

“Okay, we’re sorry,” one of them called back, but they didn’t stop filling their pockets.

Little fuckers, I thought, and reached up to turn off the faucet. I yanked a piece of paper towel off of the roll hanging from the wall and headed towards the front of the store.

They squealed and dropped the bowl back onto the counter, then ran for the door.

“We love you, Tattoo Girl!” they shouted as they burst through the door and ran into the parking lot.

My rage immediately abated. Tee hee! Tattoo Girl.

And that's when I forgave them, because I am so vain.

  I leave you now with a link to a video to see the most awesome thing to ever happen to ballet... (I tried to link the video but it didn't work, goddamnit)

***Kage's Favorite Ballet Clip EVER****

.

Coma Black: The Apple of Discord

"Okay, yes, I did say that god is dead and
that bestiality is funny. But is that really any reason
to ban me from your church?!?!"

My mouth was a crib and it was growing lies
I didn't know what love was on that day
My heart's a tiny blood clot
I picked at it


It never heals, it never goes away


This was never my world
You took the angel away
I'd kill myself to make everybody pay


I would have told him then
He was the only thing that I could love
In this dying world
But the simple word of "love" itself
Already died and went away


My heart's a bloodstained egg
We didn't handle with care
It's broken and bleeding
And it will never repair


~Marilyn Manson



        My dad walked into my room this morning, shaking my bottle of medication and brandishing a tall glass of water.

“Kagey,” he sang and tripped over the dogs, who despite knowing my father for the past seven fucking years still like to bark at him. “Time for your morning med-”

He stopped short and his mouth dropped open at the sight of me.

I looked up from where I was sitting on my bed and caught his expression of disbelief. “What?” I asked, looking down at myself to see what he saw. But I had no new tattoos, no new piercings, no hand exploring between my legs. “What’s wrong?”

“Y-your book,” he stuttered and pointed the glass of water at the book in my hands. “What the hell are you reading?”

I flipped over my thick novel and looked at the cover. It wasn’t that bad; a faded woman’s cleavage, with a hand pressing lilacs between her boobs. Kinda boring, if you ask me.

“What are you doing?” he bleated, awkwardly plonking my water onto the bureau in a daze.

“What?” I asked, looking at the book again. “It’s Anna Karenina.”

“Yes, I know,” he said impatiently. “That’s what I mean. What are you doing? That’s literature.”

I rolled my eyes and tossed the book onto my bed. “Yes, well, Dad, I’ve decided to push past pornography and takeout menus and read a real book.”

He sat down heavily on the end of my bed, distressed. Misha took this as her cue to scratch at his ankles and wail to be picked up, but Dad didn’t seem to notice.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered. “My world is turning upside down.”

“Jesus Christ, thanks for the support, Dad,” I moaned, then held out my hand and smiled winningly. “Now gimme some drugs.”

Dad has become my personal drug slinger as of late, since my last trip down Suicide Lane. It’s a role I’m certain he just relishes, being in charge of his unstable, lunatic  daughter’s meds. Yippee.

“Got my money?” he quipped, and I groaned and smacked myself in the face with my book.

“Now whose world is turning upside down?” I demanded as he shook my pills into my hand and handed me my water.

“Don’t pick at your face,” he replied, gently pulling my hand away from my cheek, where my fingers were digging out their own new piercing, of their own accord.

“Sorry,” I muttered, and tossed my pills into my mouth.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Now then. What’s your plan for today?”

I finished my water and smiled importantly. “Well, Obama and I are hosting a strip-off for charity at ten, then Michelle Bachman and I are lezzing out at two to raise money for her totally misguided, psychotic campaign,” I gushed, twirling my hair in my fingers and smiling up at the ceiling. The Daily Show was playing quietly in the background, which is, of course, the only reason I even know who Barrack Obama and Michelle Bachman are. And where the United States are, incidentally.

“Mmmmm,” Dad said. “Gross. Now what are your real plans?”

“Counseling, meeting, not throwing up,” I droned petulantly. “Same as yesterday.”

“That’s my girl,” he said and patted me on the shoulder. “Now get to it.”

“Dad?” I said as he got up to leave the room.

“Yes?” he replied, collecting my meds and the empty glass.

“You still think I’m going to get better, right?” I asked.

He stopped, then turned to stoop down and look me right in the eyes. “Yes. Yes, I still believe that you are going to get better.”

“But why?” I whispered, and he gathered me into a hug. "Everyone else has abandoned ship." I pressed my face against his shoulder and started to cry for the millionth time this week.

“Because you're my little girl,” he spoke into my hair, and squeezed me tighter. “I've seen you fight this before and win, and I know you can do it again."

       "I've been doing something really weird," I blurted out quickly before I could change my mind.

       "What's that?" he asked.

       "I keep going to Michael's grave," I said.

       Dad was quiet for a moment. "Why?" he said finally.

       "I don't know," I admitted.

        He was quiet again for another moment. "I don't know what to say, Kage. I think you should talk to Girl Counselor about it. You wouldn't have mentioned it if it wasn't bothering you."

       "I guess," I said.

       "Will you talk to Girl Counselor about it?" he asked, leaning his cheek against my forehead.

        "Yeah, okay," I said. "I will."

        “I’m not going to publish your writing posthumously,” he announced suddenly, and pulled me back to his chest to squeeze me tightly. “If you want to be a writer, Kage, you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”

And with that he let me go, stood up and walked out of my room, without looking back.

I sat by myself for a moment, looking down at Misha and Billy, who were both totally miffed that Dad had completely ignored their dramatic posturings for attention.

“He always knows just the right thing to say,” I whispered to them. Billy barked excitedly, which is totally out of character for him. I laughed for the first time in days.

“Let’s go eat some fucking breakfast,” I said, and followed my dogs out of the room.

"Hey kids! The afterlife is fun!"

.

Organ Grinder

Marilyn: "What's that? Uh, yes, I do realize how much my new wife Kage looks like Dita Von Teese
in this picture, but I assure you, it is my new wife Kage." 
Kage: "Oh baby, that's the night I cut off Dita's skin and wore it the Oscars,
remember? No wonder everyone is so confused! I don't know. I thought it looked nice."

I am the face of piss and shit and sugar
I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being


Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"Let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys


They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son
Your dad
Your fag
I am your fad




~ Marilyn Manson


Oh, god. I’m so bored. I’m so bored that I can’t even think of anything to write.

There are only so many octogenarians, burn victims, and staff that I can fuck with on this floor before I just run out of people. They should be bringing me fresh victims daily if you ask me - and you do. But no, whenever I go wandering down the hall, searching for new adventures and unsuspecting prey, the nurses just make me go back to bed, go back to bed, go back to bed.

And how many times do I have to say, “I’ll only go back to bed if Henry Rollins is in it, waiting for me” before my request gets processed???

How fucking hard is that? HUH?

Anywhoor. As I was making some changes to my blog background today, I also took the time to scroll through some of my old posts. And holy shit, you guys were right! I DO have a thing about Henry Rollins. Like, holy shit. I sure hope he doesn’t look at this site anymore, which he prolly doesn’t after our one-time misunderstanding of my open letter to him. Cuz if he saw all this other stuff, he would totally think I’m nuts.

And I AM nuts, but not in a Henry-Rollins-should-be-scared-of-me-or-should-invest-in-extra-security-personnel-the-next-time-he-plays-a-show-in-Calgary kind of way. Just crazy in the sense that I want to kidnap him and keep him chained to a wall in my basement where I can lick him at will and keep him all to myself. That’s ALL. I mean, that kind of crazy barely even registers these days. Please.

The point of this noxious rambling is that today I am thinking of another of my stalkees, Marilyn Manson. As I scrolled through my old blog posts I was dismayed to see a serious lack of MM presence as of late. THIS IS NOT RIGHT. Not right at all.

I must redeem myself to the Reverend! I started by using his image and lyrics for this post, but that’s just not enough; he deserves more than that. Luckily I’m completely nuts, so I’ve come up with a semi interesting (considering I am confined to a hop-sital bed) idea to show Marilyn Manson my Manson love.

We have this shower board on our unit, you see, which I have for some reason taken over as my own. I have also taken to bitting anyone else who tries to write on it.

Yes, I AM a doctor.

It occurred to me today that I could spread the word of Manson here at the hop-sital, if I am very careful in how I set it up. For the next two or three days, the shower board will look like this:

Eeeeeeeuuuuuurrrrrgggggghhhhhh.

That extra writing is going to arouse staff suspicion, especially since it is coming from ME. So I’m going to write gooey, tree-hugging type quotes for the first few days. The staff’s heightened state of alert (haha! get it? henry? never mind) when they walk by my board will lessen each day as they pass by and see that I am being a good girl and only writing happy, slightly nauseating quotes of lovey, gooey mush mush.

And that’s when I’ll strike! The quotes that they will have stopped even noticing as they pass the board will all become Manson’s. Hahahahahahahaha!

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, fucking Christ. I am just so fucking bored in here that this, THIS is how I must entertain myself.

What the shit.



.

Suicide Is Painless

"See ya."

Through early morning fog I see
Visions of the things to be
The pains that are withheld for me
I realize and I can see...


That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please


The game of life is hard to play
I'm gonna lose it anyway
The losing card I'll someday lay
So this is all I have to say


Suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please


The sword of time will pierce our skins
It doesn't hurt when it begins
But as it works its way on in
The pain grows stronger...watch it grin, but...


Suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please


A brave man once requested me
To answer questions that are key
Is it to be or not to be
And I replied 'oh why ask me?'


And suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please


...and you can do the same thing if you please


~ Marilyn Manson


I was going to tell you guys about this absolute diva brat that works for Dreamgirls and her outrageous behavior over the past few weeks, but I’m not really in the mood anymore.

I really wanted to write about something positive, to give you guys some good news about how I am getting better and how much I love life and how grand I think people really are inside, but it’s just not in the cards.

M called tonight. We were supposed to hang out for the third time this week, but I didn’t hear from him after school like I was supposed to.

He finally called at 10:30.

“Hey baby, where have you been?” I cried when I picked up the phone.

Silence. Then, slowly, he sighed. “Hey, baby.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked sharply.

Silence. Then, “My parents were here tonight. They were bitching at me for over an hour.”

My stomach sank. “About what?” I asked stupidly, since I already knew. It was pretty goddamn obvious.

“About you,” he said. “They were bitching at me about you.”

His parents had seen the random evidence of my being in his house over the past few days, and came tonight to confront him. They don’t want him to start seeing me again, apparently. He can do better. They don’t believe I am ever going to get well. My problems are too great for me to ever get past them. I’m not good enough for him, or his daughter.

I stopped him there. I didn’t need to hear anymore, I’m not retarded.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said softly.

“Whatever,” I said, walking outside and lighting a cigarette.

“Do you want to hang out tonight? I could still come over,” he offered hopefully.

“No. I don’t want you to,” I said absently.

“Baby, don’t be mad at me,” he pleaded.

“I’m not mad at you,” I muttered tonelessly.

And I’m not. I’m not even surprised, really. I’m just...ugh. I don’t know.

No one thinks I am going to get better. Not my parents, nor M’s parents, nor Gigi, nor M, nor anyone. No one believes that I can survive my past to beat my eating disorder and overcome my problems with substance abuse.

Not even me.

So if none of us think that I can do this, then why are we all wasting our fucking time? Why doesn’t everyone just fuck off and die, and let me do the same? I asked all of you to leave me the fuck alone, and you refused. But if you don’t even believe in me then why the fuck are you hanging around?

Cake And Sodomy

 "Omigod, you guys! For me? Cake AND Sodomy?
Awwww, that's so sweet! Thank-you!"

I am the god of fuck 


Virgins sold in quantity 
Herded by heredity 
Red-neck-burn-out-mid-west-mind 
Who said date rape is unkind?


White trash, get down on your knees 
Time for cake and sodomy



~ Marilyn Manson


I wanted to write a quick post tonight, as I am off to the dentist again tomorrow morning, and I think we all remember what happened last time I was gonna “post something as soon as I get back from my dentist  appointment."

I recently emailed another blogger named Charlotte, over at Procrastination Squared. We are new to following each other’s blogs, but she is funny and her writing makes me laugh. Anyway, she had asked me a question, so I pretended that I knew the answer, and sent her off an all-knowing, smarmy arsed email.

Check out what she titled her reply:

“Hey, Mrs. Rollins!”

Hahahahahahaha! FUCK YEAH!!!

So what I am to understand is that, basically, I am married to Henry Rollins in the eyes of EVERYONE in the ENTIRE WORLD.

Oh! Except for Henry Rollins, of course, but whatever. Tis but a mere hurdle.

Here then, quickly, is a gratuitous picture of my husband, Henry "MyPecsDanceOnlyForKage" Rollins, for you to enjoy during a private moment in a broom closet/ public transport vehicle/ Old Navy changing room later today:

"Will you do absolutely whatever I tell you to do,
without question, Kagie?"

And here’s a picture of me. (Not to be used as a sexual aid - you had your chance to fully drain your fluids during your forbidden tryst with Henry's picture in the photocopy room earlier.)

As you can see, I am assimilating nicely to my new life of obsequious sexual servitude:

"BRING IT, HENRY."
(Rage Kage Fun Fact: I stole these glasses from a small, defenseless child. 
It was hilarious.)

I am being broken down and re-educated, one tiny, vulnerable, hyper-sensitive piece of flesh at a time.

Boo yah.

Now then. NOW, THEN. What the fuck were we talking about again?

Oh right, Charlotte. Yes, Charlotte.

The other thing about Charlotte is that I didn’t really want to admit to her that I couldn’t quite figure out where she was from.

Like, there used to be some crazy writing on her blog, in some strange, mythical language, never before seen by man.

It looked like German, though I knew enough drunk-tourist-German to know that it wasn’t; or perhaps it was Dutch, though for some reason I didn’t believe it was that, either.

Come on, Kage, think! I reprimanded myself. You’re the absolute bare minimum of well traveled. Take an educated guess, here.

Okay, I thought, concentrating hard. Um...how...about...African? Iranian? Australian!

You can see why I didn’t mention it.

But at the end of her email reply, Charlotte included this little tidbit of information for me:

“Kage is the Danish word for "cake", and I was reading your newest post when my friend wrote "I want cake!" to my msn. I read "I want Kage!" Hahaha! I was thinking "wtf!" for a couple of seconds before I realized I was reading it wrongly.”


And my incredible powers of deduction led me to the conclusion that hey! maybe she's Danish.

Anyway, that's where the inspiration for today's song, Cake and Sodomy, came from - Dane-land.

And really, people... don’t we all just want a little Kage and Sodomy in our lives?


.

Fight Song

"And I want a fire truck...and a new BMX bike...and mass genocide for
all the kids in my school who made fun of my eyes..."

I'm not a slave to a god
That doesn't exist
I'm not a slave to a world
That doesn't give a shit


~ Marilyn Manson


A mother's pride knows no bounds.

And since I have thoughtfully never damned the world by regurgitating a carbon copy of myself, I have somehow made my dogs and my blog (and to a lesser extent, my iPod) into my surrogate children, my only sources of matriarchal pride. Even if some of those things still occasionally poop on the bathroom carpet while I'm in the shower.

I'm not saying who.

Anyway, sometimes a mum wants to show off her offspring. Not so much because she is proud of each of her offspring as individual entities, but more as creations that she can take credit for.

That said, here is the Top Ten List of search terms that have brought people to my blog in the past few weeks, from a few different search engines. The pink writing is my initial reaction to each one.

#1. Sex Anywhere & Everywhere (yes, please) (google.com)
#2. Hyena Fucking (ummm...wha?) (hot google)
#3. Do Sociopaths Read Erotica? (no, we write stupid blogs about it) (google.com)
#4. Anorexia Sex (only when we're super skinny) (bing.com)
#5. Shut The Fuck Up And Gimme Gimme Gimme (as the bishop said to the actress) (google.de)
#6. Teacher Student Affair Royal Winnipeg Ballet (he was 18, fuck off) (google.ca)
#7. I Walked On Him In Stilettos (and he paid me for it!) (google.com)
#8. Neck Tattoos Sociopath (mmmmm) (google.com)
#9. Women Carry Fucks (only if it's Stephen Colbert dressed as Richard Branson) (google.sa)
#10. Lip Sequins Stage Jew (da fuck???) (google.uk)

There are some sick people out there. Thank god my blog is here to straighten them out.

Oh, wait.

.

Get Your Gunn

"The schnazzberries taste like schnazzberries."

I eat innocent meat
The housewife I will beat
The pro-life I will kill
What you won't do I will


I bash myself to sleep
What you sow I will reap
I scar myself you see
I wish I wasn't me


Pseudo-morals work real well
On the talk shows for the weak
But your selective judgements
And goodguy badges
Don't mean a fuck to me


I throw a little fit
I slit my teenage wrist
The most that I can learn
Is in records that you burn


Get your gunn
Get your gunn


~ Marilyn Manson
(shamelessly ripped from  inspired by RudeBlogger)


So, I haven’t been getting the warmest of receptions to my Marilyn Manson contact lenses. At ALL.

I mean, I get it, they’re weird. Duh. I didn’t set out to emulate Marilyn Manson’s eyes because he’s soft and feminine and brings all the boys to his yard. I wanted his eyes because they are creepy and weird and tell strangers, “Piss off and leave me alone.”

The key word here, though, is strangers.

But when even my friends and family started to break eye contact with me and give me a wide berth, I knew something drastic needed to be done.

I figured, it’s all in the presentation, innit? The explanation, the reasons why.

When my friends would ask, “What the hell’s wrong with your eyes?!”, I believe my mistake lay in the telling of the truth:

“Nothing. They’re just contacts.”

FAIL.

I might as well just say, “Nothing. I just thought I’d single myself out as a self-cutting member of the walking dead.”

People need a reason they can get behind, I guess.

And apparently, that ain’t one of ‘em.

And so, in a moment of frustration yesterday, I decided to give the masses what they wanted.

“Jesus Christ, Kage, what’s wrong with your eyes?” asked my friend Dee, as we met up for lunch in a posh restaurant yesterday afternoon.

All right, that’s it, I decided. Enough.

“Shhh!” I hissed. “Keep your voice down.” I gave a quick, covert glance around the restaurant, then motioned at her chair. “Sit down, Dee. I need to tell you something.”

She hesitated, her ass hovering above her chair. “What is it?” she whispered.

I looked over both shoulders, to make sure no one could hear us, then leaned in dramatically. “My eyes,” I said softly.

Her own eyes widened. “What?”

“I have an eye disease,” I sighed, looking forlornly into my intertwined fingers, which I had propped up on the table in front of me.

“What kind of eye disease?" she breathed.

“It’s called...um, Opto-albino-ritis," I said. "It’s like the Michael Jackson disease, but for your eyes.”

“No. Fucking. Way,” she said, and had the good grace to look a bit suspicious.

“It’s true,” I said defensively. “You’ve seen albinos, right?” I said, and she nodded. “And how creepy and light their eyes are?” She nodded again. “Well, that’s happening to me.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Doesn't that mean your skin and hair are gonna lose all their pigment too?”

Fuck, I don’t know, I thought desperately.


“Yes,” I said sadly, and shook my head. “Just like Michael Jackson. It started in his eyes, too, then spread like wildfire. Unstoppable.”

“Wow,” she said, clearly impressed.

“Yeah. So! What should we eat?” I said, and opened my menu. Time to change the subject.

I really should have done a little research before I spewed that one forth, but whatever. At least she didn’t bug me about my contacts again. Though I have a feeling that at any moment now, the doorbell might ring with a Get Better Soon bouquet from Dee.

Though, of course, as soon as she reads this post, I’m dead in the fucking water.

Haha! Michael Jackson disease for your eyes.

Dee. You ass ;)

I still loves ya, though.

Please don't hurt me.