Being sugar-high is like being drunk without the hangover

You know, I really shouldn't be surprised that when push comes to shove and I have absolutely nothing to write about, I fall back on that old standby of topics: absolutely nothing in particular.

I know this annoys some (one) of you, but honestly it's not like I COULD stay on topic if I wanted to. Which I don't. My brain just sort of rambles around from place to place. It's like a rusty old tractor, and occasionally it works but most of the time it doesn't. So I kick it, it spouts a bunch of smoke, and I get a half-rant. But no corn. Perhaps if I had a newer tractor, I'd be able to grow corn in the recesses of my brain (although I don't see why I'd want to), but I don't.

I do, however, want to grow imported chocolates. And vodka, so that I can get my friends drunk and take incriminating pictures of them humping barstools and making out with what might be a history textbook, if I can time it right.

I'd also like a pony, and perhaps a really sexy convertible. Neither of them need to come down my chimney, because the pony would probably poop everywhere and the convertible would land on the leather couches, which frankly I don't really care about, because my cat peed on those couches and then my dog peed on those couches and I'm just waiting for my friends to pee on those couches because brain-wise, they're about a step down from my dog.

And I'm only half kidding too. Aren't you glad you love me so much that you'll forgive me anyways?

Perhaps instead of this weird, useless, tactless, underwear-less blog post, I should eat chocolate. Then again, considering how much chocolate I've already ingested today, perhaps not. It does explain my mood, and why I commented with "andala andala squeak squeak" on a friend's blog. Naturally, I wrote more than that, but I'm pretty sure that was the highlight.

See, when I'm really, really sugar-high but haven't quite noticed it yet, I tend to sort of say anything that pops into my head, ranging from You brought the smackdown to MLK! to They can go screw themselves. Without lube. <3

Neither of which is particularly intelligent. But the guys I was talking about CAN go screw themselves, and then maybe they'll be able to pull their little bigot minds out of their asses and stop being such backwards idiots and I'd really prefer it if I was the one who got to kick them so hard they can't spread their stupid genes to their poor kids but I know there are other people who probably got first dibs.

...Right. Done.

Enough about them! I shall change directions with much shifting of gears and I know I'm taking the bad analogy way too far but I'm not in English class, dammit, and if I want to post rough onigisniggys and sentences like "He whizzed in the parking lot of Paco's Tacos" I am damned well going to. And then cry when no one leaves me a comment.

Although honestly, I had an idea for semi-revenge on the #$(!&#@ guys and granted, maybe it was a bit much and I'd have to create another email account and if the school found out who was behind it I'd be dead twice over, but it'd be worth it just to see the looks on their faces when they found their inboxes full of something I probably shouldn't mention because it appears that sanity has made its short return, and I know I'll offend people.

Not that I care (I do).

Still, people piss me off. Chocolate is much more agreeable. So are horses, unless they bite your boob and draw blood in front of a class of six-year-olds. That's got to suck mold.

Which reminds me, oddly enough, that the first time I ever saw the phrase sucks mold, it was following my name. On a whiteboard, in big fat letters. Aren't my old friends fabulous?

But I'm running out of steam (and time, and interest, and money, and I already lost sanity, but I'm searching), so I think I need to stop.

And remember kids, taking meth makes you uglier than you already are. Take chocolate. That only...makes you fat.

God, I'm doomed.