Cauldron

I like books.

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I live in a small town and enjoy writing about the inhabitants. I spend most of my time perusing through used book stores looking for that one great book that I don't have; consequently, I have rooms filled with books. I am a book addict.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Stupid people and dirty pots

I am at the age where things piss me off. I don’t mean big things that annoy everyone, I mean little things. Like for instance, there is this girl in one of my classes, a young, skinny girl with little hips and big chest, and she talks all the fucking time. She never shuts up and never says anything. She has even tried to finish my sentences, so I intentionally end them differently than how they seem to be going. I do that and then I want to tell her to let me do my own talking and please let the Professor her own talking too. Her boobs bother me. They are obviously fake, they don't even jiggle. They are fake and why do girls do that? Now she could be wearing the push up bra, never thought of that, but that might be the case. What ever the case, I still think she is pissy and she pisses me off.

Then there is the one who has to give daily updates on her brats. I am not being mean, she doesn’t ever shut up. Her brats are almost grown and when she talks about them, she doesn’t realize that what she is saying is stupid. She laughs about letting them break the rules and admits buying these kids weapons.

I am also peeved at this 40 something year old guy who thinks he is hot and all women are after him; not so, he is far from hot, not warm, not even room temperature. He runs around freezing temperature. When he announced to me that he was thinking on asking this young 20 something cute cute girl out, well I almost choked on my coffee. He also told me if he ever decided to do the multi racial thing, there was a really hot African American he wanted to ask out. I looked at him and said, “As if.”
He said, “What?”
I said, “What makes you think any hot woman will go out with you. You’re 40 something, pig headed, big bellied, and you wear a rodeo belt.” I’m sorry, the rodeo belt, a big turn off, especially since he admits he bought it at a garage sell. Not to mention the jaw full of chew, and that he is a REPUBLICAN, you put all of that together and you definitely have an updatable on your hands.

I get pissed at the Pepsi machine; it eats my money and doesn’t shit me out a diet Pepsi. I hate no toilet paper in the stalls at school and why in the fuck can the cleaning guy not keep the toilets clean. How hard is it to spray a little toilet bowl cleaner and wipe a toilet brush around the bowl? I like a clean pot and a clean seat, and to think there might be secretions or excretions that are alien to me, well that makes me hold my urine until my bladder stretches too large and then my back hurts, and then my neck and then I am screaming at the first person who walks by. All because the pot was dirty.

I also hate ass kissers. You know the ones who will give their last dollar to a teacher or the teacher’s kid but if they see a poor student on campus who has her kid or kids with her because she can’t get a sitter, then they have no money, do you think Ms Brownnose will buy these little fellows a coke. No sirree.

I hate reading a magazine in the Doc’s office and be in a really good part and some ignorant ass tore a coupon out, and guess what, the story isn’t finished. Yep, pisses me off royally.

Finally I hate with a passion when someone, especially Mr. Zelda asks me what’s wrong or what am I thinking. Are my thoughts public properties now?

Geeze, I need hormones. Maybe I’ll let them put me on Estrogen, while I liked the chin hair plucking, something erotic happens and can’t explain it (not erotic in I need a man or a vibrator, but something else like ouch felt good) I don’t like that everything annoys me. And, there have been noticeable anatomical things happening to me since zero hormones.

This wasn’t meant to be so ugly but it had to be said, well it didn’t have to be said, but I sure do feel better having said them.

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