Now that I've finished laughing at the implausible idea that the captcha that was just on the screen actually asked me to type 'bitch', I'm going to explain what I've been up to today.
So it's Sunday evening and I'm remarkably done with all homework before dinner. I mean I still have this essay on human behavior due Thursday, by fuck, it's due Thursday. And I've been busy making a powepoint on British Imperialsim. So I awoke this morning to my mother telling me that she'll be off with my father at some home show thing, and I'm thankful that I am, in fact, not interested nor ever will be interested in home shows or anything Home Depot Expo-meets-HGTV-esque. But I do have to confess to watching a My House is Worth What? marathon for 3 straight hours before. I cleansed myself by later watching Rock of Love Bus. I'd love to win one of those dream homes thoguh. I couldn't afford taxes, but think of what I could spend with the profit I'd make from selling it. Fuck, I could buy Paul McCartney (no I couldn't).
So anyway, I get up and make myself a chocolate croissant via Whole Foods that the French would be incensed by and I sit down to watch Donna Pinciotti and Eric Foreman argue over who wants sex more. We're talking about a mediocre start to the day, but it's Sunday and besides this I have no other shit that needs to be done. Besides my Imperialism project but my mom left in the car that my bag was in, so no history book for me. So I'm sitting here when my computer decides that I want to read about Nick Jonas dumping Selena Gomez for Miley Cyrus (scandalous!) or some shit like that, and this website that's up on my screen has three items that give me some kind of entertainment: there's an ad to the left of the screen advertising porn with guaranteed unproffessionals (which is funny because I've read about that sort of ad in a Chuck Klosterman book although I had yet to see one), there's a link at the top of the screen with a picture of Miley Cyrus in some wet t-shirt next to it asking me to click there for all the news about her and her father supposedly frenching at P.F. Chang's, and there's a link underneath that proclaiming that, on the same day she made out with her dad, Miley Cyrus got drunk with Ashlee Simpson and the lead singer off the Racal Flats. Now that, my friends, is either a lie or fucked up. I really can't tell.
My parents get home as I'm finishing that Imperialism project and I'm weighing my options. Eat, play some James Bond, do my English essay, or take a shower. And just as you predicted, comrades, I did none of said options. Instead, I argued with my father over the prospects of whether Gilmour or Waters wrote a certain song, due to the fact that the answer is not on WikiAnswers, and a heated debate of me trying to prove to him that My Chemical Romance did not, infact, leave out seven minutes of Dylan's Desolation Row in their cover because they were lazy. I'm pretty sure Gerard Way would agree with me on that that's some of the best shit ever written.
And now I am here, sighing at the grim outlook of where my life is going as my dad yells up the stairs for me to come watch Prince Caspian in blue-ray. More will come later.
