Penis.

Okay, yeah. I kind of lied. This post isn't about stuff I hate. People are just getting to be so negative, that the only thing I can do is post pure goodness and love.

I mean, I hate bread crusts, the burnt edges of poptarts, bad cellphone reception, venereal diseases and the fact that I have a cup full of pens that are all out of ink, but I also hate negativity, so therefore, I give you:

Pure goodness

Kittens...!

Unicorns...!

Rainbows...

Puppies!

Daleks!

Crowbar for when the Zombie Apocalypse happens!

Hell!

Bacon Cookies!

What makes you happy? For me, it's bacon cookies. I'm so glad someone finally made bacon cookies.

Are you gay? Does lightning keep hitting you? Okay, then keep reading.

I was thinking the other day, but I smelled the scent of burning cerebellum, so I stopped. However, in that short time exploring the wonderful world of sentience, I realized something important: don't do heroin. I also learned that two is better one. Also, two is scarier than one. Let me explain! Sit back down! Don't you click out of my page, douchebag!

If someone is going to shoot you, then they are holding a gun, usually with their hand. That's scary, because being shot is often detrimental to having a pleasant day. But if they have two guns, that's doubly as scary. If they're holding three guns, then not only are they talented, but they're also triple the scariness of a one-gun holding gun-holder.

This same principle applies to knives.

And grenades.

If your boyfriend sleeps with that skank Samantha Mason, then that's okay, because he promised that he was drunk and would never do it again. However, if it happens twice, then you know he's full of CRAP! If it happens a third time, then that's when you know he's a certified man-slut and it's time to cut him off, before calling him two hours later crying and drunk telling him that you both can make it work.

Now, what if God keeps doing something over and over, huh, Lousiana? You know what I'm talking about. Girls come to your cities every year to show the excess fat on their chests that are used to feed infants in exchange for a string covered with shiny plastic spheres, and for that, you are all damned. First, you had Hurricane Katrina, then Hurricane Rita, then Bobby Jindal was elected for your governor, and then you had an oil spill off your coast. Are you going to keep pissing God off by playing the Devil's music? (Jazz) It doesn't take an idiot or a multinational multimedia sensationalist propaganda giant to put those things together to indicate that you're a bunch of sinners.

Did you realize that the radar signature of the precipitation in Hurricane Katrina vaguely resembled a fetus during one of it's frames? I didn't either until the Colombia Christians for Life pointed that out to me, and I nodded, smiled a little to myself and said quietly "You know what? You crazy douches are right!" That's because Lousiana aborts babies. According to my calculations, Lousiana witch doctors abort approximately 5,000 innocent babies per second. Those are all precious little babies who will never get to grow up to eat turkey bacon, watch pornography, throw rocks at cats, invent the cure for stupidity, avoid child support payments, etc. That makes me really sad inside to even think about it. It makes me so sad that I want to just throw up, but instead of regular vomit, I would throw up pure tears.

OKAY, This next paragraph is going to contain some very disturbing language, so if you're easily offended, then just skip to the pink text to get the potential mental images out of your mind before they even have a chance to get into your head like a mindworm burrowing into your brain.

Gay people. There a lot of them. Do they deserve to go to Hell for an eternity? You betcha. If you stick it in the wrong hole, then you're going be set on fire FOREVER. Not 1,000 years. Not 8,000,000 years. Not even 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 years. No, it's going to be FOREVER. However, gay people keep sticking it in the wrong hole, and in particular, the hole where the poop comes out. Does that make sense? I would never let anyone near my anus, because I can barely fit my finger in there, so I can't imagine a penis being in there, even if I was on crystal meth. No way. If I ever got a tattoo, it would read "exit only" and it would point to my butt. I would also have it in French, Spanish, Russian, Swahili and Lithuanian, so guys from foreign countries would know, because sometimes when you're backpacking through Europe and end up in an orgy, there can be a language barrier. They just know you're American and say "I want to do the sex to you." and you're like "Uh! NO!?" but they don't understand, or at least, they were pretending like they didn't. And then when you're kidnapped by human sex slave smugglers, the clients don't understand when you're screaming at them in English, and they end up beating you with their shoe and then yelling at your pimp in Turkish about how their prostitutes are unruly and kill the mood. Wow, that was dirty. I should tell a unicorn story to balance this out.

Little Princess Unicorn Magic Castle Fairy Adventure

Once upon a time, in a magical castle in the clouds where there were rainbows everyday, there lived Little Princess Unicorn. She was very nice, and invited her fairy friends over for tea parties, and bake them cookies. One day, a magical pumpkin appeared outside the cloud castle. "Oh dear!" Little Princess Unicorn exclaimed. "Whatever could this be?" So she took it to her fairy friends, who told her that it was magic pumpkin, and that if she made it into a delicious pie, she could get one wish. Little Princess Unicorn was delighted, and decided to bake a delicious pumpkin pie, and make her wish. When she made the pie, though, she didn't know what to wish for. So that night, she looked up at a magical shooting star and said "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, whatever shall I wish for?" and just then, her prayer was answered because a super-wise owl landed at her window and said "Do not worry, child. I am the very wise owl." Little Princess Unicorn was so happy and asked "What should I wish for with my magic pumpkin?" The wise owl thought for a bit, and then replied, "You should wish for what is in your heart!" and then he flew away. So Little Princess Unicorn went to the magical pumpkin pie and ate every last bite. Then  she said quietly, "I wish to be a fairy princess!" and her wish was granted. She turned into a little fairy princess and married a fairy prince and lived happily ever after.

Alright, back to my post.

Okay, this giant pool of oil is obviously symbolic for the amount of gay lube that Lousiana is using. It's there to let everyone know that New Orleans is a bad place where people can't keep their pants on like Lil' Wayne. Because his pants are too big. And they fall off. And he's from New Orleans.

Actually, okay, post over! It's done! I think I've made my point.

It's oranges. Don't even read the rest of this post. It's just fucking oranges. I mean, Apples are pretty good in their own right, but they can't tango with oranges. Sorry, Apple lovers, but you should just admit you were totally wrong to think apples were better all this time. In fact, I'll bet you're chuckling to yourself right now and thinking "Oh, you're so right. How did I not realize this sooner? I should have paid attention more in my agriculture class." or, you're one of those crazy idealots, in your basement, clinging to a barrel of apples with a large gun nearby, and still think the world is a flat pancake created by a giant grill cook in space. I can't convince everyone, because there even some people who think Hitler was right. We all know Hitler was super duper wrong. It's almost easy to make fun of Hitler-advocates, but remember, they're people too, and in a more politically-correct age, they will be called the Morally Challenged and will have their own small bus to cart them off to school.

First, if you wanted to stuff your bra to make your boobs appear to be larger, what would you use? Apples, or some good old-fashioned American citrus? Don't even answer that rhetorical question aloud as you sit in front of your computer alone in your underwear while eating a bowl of Chocolate Werewolf-Os. The answer is oranges, but also lemons if you want your nipples to stick out for some reason. Or grapefruits if you have a really bad inferiority complex. I guess you could go with a pair of small melons, but that would be comically large, and no one would believe you, Jessica. Just kidding. Or am I.

If you are struck with the Swine Flu/Bird Flu/Mad Cow Disease/Barnyard Cat Measles, what is the first thing you think of taking? That's right: Vitamin C, Chicken Soup, and a Soda On The Side. Where does Vitamin C come from? Look it up on the internet, you dildo. Oranges. This winter season, when Dr. Mario fails to throw the correctly-colored pills onto the red, blue and yellow germs in the proper combination, and you're struck down in your prime by a deadly virus, don't try to eat an apple a day to keep the doctor away. He just stays away because they don't make house calls anymore.

Now let's talk about apples for a second. Did you know that an apple put a young Swiss boy in mortal danger from arrows? Did you know that New York is called The Big Apple? This is because the people in NYC are very rude, especially on the subway. Xanga happens to be headquartered in New York, and the Xanga logo has the colors red (For apples) and orange (For oranges, duh) right next to each other. Well, guess how they came up with that logo? Well, it's not a glaring lack of creativity as you previously thought, but rather, symbolism for the forces of the universe: Water, Oranges, Apples, Sunlight and Grass Pokemon, in order of importance from left to right, with the LEFT being far more important. Water, obviously, is the source of all living things, much like the force*, but also, the source of death for Leonardo DiCaprio. That movie is over ten years old. Fuck. Next in order of universal balance is ORANGES. Yes, I said it, because I guess no one else had the vertebrae to do so, knowing they'd be flamed hard by those right-wing fundamentalist apple-lovers who cling to their pies.

Which do you think is better: Apples or Oranges? Here's a hint: Oranges.

* - footnote: while writing this, I googled "The Force" because I thought it would be funny to link to some geeky Star Wars fan page, but I accidentally typed "he force" and one of the search options was "He forced himself into me", and I was like "Uhm.... okay." and... yeah.

Let's face it: shit happens.

You're just sitting down, reading a good book (I won't give any examples, because that's very subjective, so just assume it's "Crime and Punishment") when out of nowhere, you snap your tibia. Minutes later, you're breathing through a tube and being rushed into an emergency room where the doctors all are fucking each other and have a lot of emotional problems, and the senior surgeons try to mentor their apprentices on life issues while performing open heart surgery on you. You wake up 28 years later, and find out there is a Gay Muslim President in America, and that women's shoes are more uncomfortable than ever.

What I just described happens everyday, especially to children with sad, soulful eyes. However, life goes on, and you are in luck, in fact! Now that your leg was mangled in a yogurt-machine, people will feel sorry for you and do you favors, and you can get to the front of all the rides. There is no better feeling than saying "Pardon me, but I was horribly injured, and I may not live much longer and before I go, I want to live life to the fullest." and the rollercoaster-ride-guy goes "Certainly, right this way! You don't have to wait." then you go "Bless you, sir!" then get into your seat, and just before the ride goes, you turn to all the people waiting in line and give them all the finger. The middle finger.

Now, if you encounter someone who is injured, the first thing you should do is ask "Are you okay?" in the stupidest-sounding voice possible. This will feign concern, which is vital to Looking Good In Front Of Everybody. When they groan "No." the next thing you should do is elevate the injured part of their body. This won't do anything, but it may make you seem knowledgeable about first aid, like you read a pamphelet. The next step is to put ice on it. Just loads and loads of ice, because when someone hurts, you have to just do something; it doesn't really matter what, just as long as it appears helpful to the person in question, and onlookers. If there is no ice, take off your pants and soak them in toilet water, then wrap them around the victim's foot. The next step is to find out if they need to go to the hospital. NEVER take them to the hospital yourself, because you'll be in there for a long time, and that's quite a drag, so always just help load them into someone else's car then look on as they are driven off into the sunset, feeling good about how you handled that situation.

Getting seriously injured is great for collecting money from liability suits against companies, so advise all of you get into an altercation with a work-related machine so you can get paid da money money. A hand or finger is a small price to pay for 22 million dollars, but I'd say it's a fairly good trade-off, just so long as it appear that the company is responsible. Don't just stick your hand in a chopping machine; that's just silly, but rather, do something like step in front of a forklift while wearing ear-protecty-headphone-thingies and then later say "I couldn't hear the forklift, and because the company makes me wear these, it's their fault."

If you are injured, you are the most important person in the world. If someone is rude to you, they're a terrible person, because they should be thankful that they're healthy and in one piece while your walking on crutches. That's the most important of post-injury: the attitude. You have to let people know, constantly, just how much pain you were in, and how much psychological pain you're in. You weren't just hurt on the outside; your very soul and being was crippled and the only way you can be restored to full health is to receive a lot of sympathy from other people, but especially, strangers. If someone doesn't just gush with sympathy and compassion about injury, then they're a piece of shit! Fuck them!

For those who encounter the crippled: it is best to avoid them at all costs. After all, they want to waste your time with their burden. On top of that, they never just want to talk about normal things, like sex and drugs, no, they always want to talk about their injuries. As a non-crippled person, you want to get your mind positive by surrounding yourself with positive energy, and discuss non-crippled topics with fellow non-crippled people. Now, if you're trapped and a cripple has cornered you, and you can't just jump from wall to wall, gradually gaining height to escape to the roof like in a Jackie Chan movies, then you should do the following: Pretend to be 'treating them normally', but talk in a awkward voice, slightly louder than normal. Always ask them why they're wearing a cast. "Why are you wearing a cast?" you ask. "I slipped on my cat and fell down the stairs." they reply, to which you follow up by asking "Are you okay?", which is kind of a weird question, because their foot is obviously hurt or broken, but in theory, they could lead a long, productive life full of happiness, but you have to assess how they feel about their injury. If they go "Eh, oh this? It's fine." then they'll heal in a matter of weeks, thus giving you permission to not really care, but maybe help them out with a few tasks, then sign the cast for fun. If they complain about the injury, then odds are, they will never heal, ever. Years after the cast is off, they'll still say their foot hurts, so it's a good idea to never speak to them again. End the conversation by telling them you're late for a very important appointment with the vet, even if you don't own a pet, and in fact, especially if you don't own a pet.

Remember, above all else, just remember to pretend you care, but that's the glue that holds the house-of-cards that is society together.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving, and don't try to deep-fry your turkey, because that will likely start a large grease fire.

Well, shit. It's September.

The eleventh came and went, and there were so many documentaries depicting blurry passengers screaming inside a blurry cockpit as blurry terrorists took over a blurry plane in a blurry reenactment of the events that transpired that day. Aside from the blurry reenactments, there were also photo montages of various events, actual phone calls made, and interviews with the TV-whore family members of the victims, who usually say "I just couldn't believe it. It didn't feel real."

I really think it's time to let go. You have to put the past in your behind, and that means not letting trauma keep you down forever.

It's also Christmas shopping time. That's right; people shop for Christmas now. "Those fools." you must be thinking, "Christmas is then, not now! Elle, oh Elle." but let me just interject by saying it's a free country, and anarchy reigns. Packs of wild dogs roam the streets. There is no law.

Actually, it's an expensive country, but there's a pretty good reason to go shopping for Christmas now: The holiday season is like that herd of wilderbeasts that killed Mufasa. At 4 in the morning, the doors open for the "special holiday deals", and hundreds of crazed, strung-out people begin running at full speed to get into the store. Sometimes they even warm-up for this stampede by doing various hamstring stretches and jumping jacks, because nothing sucks more than not getting to the deals fast enough AND pulling a calf muscle. Or tearing your groin. Occasionally, you have to camp outside the store for a few days to secure your place in line, but at least you know that the new "Grand Theft Auto: Amish Gang Wars" copy will be yours after suffering through 48 hours in the bitter biting cold as Old Man Winter molests you in your own bed with his icy penis of frigid coldness. That's another thing, the weather. It's awful. Some days, the roads are covered in ice, or snow. Sometimes it's snowing. Sometimes the wind chill is -85 degrees. Sometimes a giant ghostly lion appears in the clouds (A third 'Lion King' reference? What the fuck?).

The worst part, though, is the people. All the stores are packed to the ceiling. I open the doors, and people come spilling out. People are running around in huge numbers, getting into fights, and occasionally starting small fires out of sheer frustration. They're all over the roads like a 75-year-old Asian Woman trying to text her bff jill while eating a cat or something. The traffic is so perilous that it would be safer to fling yourself from a really big catapult to your destination, and hope you land on something soft, like a super marshmallow. People are always getting trampled to death and dying in fiery explosions because of the insane amounts of insane people rushing around to purchase gifts.

That's why this year, I'm shopping early. Hakuna matata.

 Over the course of the last couple of seasons, I haven't posted very much. I haven't been engaged much in blogging since last December, but I pop back in occasionally, kind of like driving through your childhood hometown to see how it is, and you see some of the same people, some of have moved away. The sidewalks are cracked, the houses need paint, there's garbage on the broken avenues, and that little shop that used to sell those gigantic lollipops has closed down.

As I stroll down those tattered walkways, people wave to me and say they miss me. I missed them too. They smile at me, and I smile back. They ask me where I've been, and I say...

An ominous charcoal-black windowless full-size van came screeching from beyond yonder spontaneously as I stood posed in serene equanimity. Suddenly, I was punched with the compunction to be terrified; my legs turned to liquid, the cartilage transmogrified into tapioca pudding. If I was canine, the hackles would factually stand on my back, however, my limbs would render themselves immobile as if latched in cast-iron shackles. Lurid silhouettes orbited by malign ambiance awarded no contradiction to my steadfast optimism, as they darted about ubiquitously. I became infinitesimally miniscule, but remained fastidiously captivated by the capricious cavalcade of camaraderie surreptitiously circling in the shadows. No doubt they were rendered flabbergasted by my profluence of equanimity, and had I been able to navigate through a labyrinth of lenient masked harbingers, I certainly would've evaded seizure, however, they were relentless. Prior to being tossed like Caesar Salad into their van, I opened my thesaurus and said "Well, this is quite...", turning a page to find the word I said, "...vexing." They did not engage a tête-à-tête.

Anyhoo, I was kidnapped by a quinessential polygamist cult with it's citadel situated in the heart of Wyoming (Where else would it be? Nebraska?). You know, an insidious anti-hedonistic threshold of hypnotized lemmings serenading a singular totalitarian esoteric ostentatious modern-era messiah with a litany of hallelujahs, or verily be ostracized by the cattle-like stoic congregation, envisaged as a prefidious Benedict Arnold to the Sovereign Savior, who merely confabulates fabrications fabulously and causes the fabric of reality to stand flabbergasted as his mere whim constitutes ultimate unequivocal actuality! Upon arrival, he brusquely began courting me for coitus, as his role as fucking Jesus revolved about a routine of copulating preadolescents of the xx-deoxyribonucleic acid persuasion, but also an occasional fully-developed female mammal.

So naturally, I escaped with a nail file.

Fucking weirdos. So, after I made haste from the cult (I was saved, in part, by a time-traveling, crime-fighting monkey named Nomac, who slashed peoples' Achilles Tendons as his main attack.) I got on a bus that took me to Kalamazoo, where I took a plane to Albuquerque, and then I took a helicopter to Ouagadougou, and then I took two aspirin, some painkillers, a Jack, and a coke, and woke up in a crate that sent me back home, where I finally sat down to blog, but I had such a headache that I was able to write was "CRIPES!" before passing out.

I actually wrote a lot of posts, but I never made any of them public, because they didn't "feel right". Maybe you know about those posts that you write, but keep going back and deleting whole paragraphs that just came out wrong, then, after finishing it, it still wasn't right. You looked at it, and concluded to yourself "I guess some things are just better off left unsaid."

Remember when Obama said that police officer acted stupidly? Sure, it's stupid for arresting someone for trying to get into their own house when they clearly identify themself as the legal resident, but apparently, the President wasn't allowed to have an opinion, because it "undermines the police's decisions". Really, that makes sense, because there are times when a minority person pulls out a wallet that looks like a weapon, and he has to be shot 127 times. Anyhow, the point is, I had things to say, but I didn't post them for ze world to see for a change, thus disengaging me from the Xanga Scene for awhile. I still feel disengaged, disgruntled and disconnected from the Xanga world in general. I stilll feel guilty about some of the things that I did on xanga before, and I have cloud over me telling me that I'll never be as "big" as I was before.

It's both freeing and disappointing to not be writing for an audience of thousands anymore, because in general, mass audiences don't catch subtlety very well, but laugh at pictures of sandwiches and pop-culture jokes. On the other hand, if you think it's fun having a handful of people care about what you write, imagine having a fuckton more people caring. That kind of grew on me for awhile, and I had a hard time letting it go. Most of my life, nobody has cared about what I thought, and I mean literally nobody. I'm not trying to get pity points by saying that, I'm just saying that when you crave validity, and then it comes in truckloads, it's very overwhelming but incredible.

If you're worried about me, never fear... I've grown up somewhat since I started this blog, and I feel like I have more confidence now, and I think the people in my life notice it too. To be honest, Xanga may have something to do with that, so thank you.

Peace!

Hey, listen you haters and listen GOOD. I am sick of your SHIT. YOU HATERS. ALL YOU DO IS HATE. Sometimes you stay up at night thinking of new ways to hate. "PERHAPZ I SHALL HATE ON MY FOOT LOLCAKES" because you think in ALL CAPS.

WELL, GUESS WHAT. Fuck YOU. FUCK YOU. Yeah, bitch. FUCK you. Fuck YOU. fUcK yOu. God-darn it I think you is such moron and need to shut the fuck up before I stuff a cat in your mouth BITHC.

What you have just witnessed was, well, me murdering the English Language with with a meat cleaver, but more importantly, a text-skit that emphasizes how important it is to stay chill as fuck when people be hating on your looks in public, or on your Xanga blog, or worse, your BroodWar skills. You do not want to flip out and write something of that sort when haters be hating. It makes you look like a very large baby.

It's important to not be afraid to speak your mind, and say on your blog things such as, like, "I think abortion is good, because those babies could grow up to be the next Hitler, especially Austrian babies." but you have to realize that there will be haters. What is a hater? Well, simply put, a hater is a human being who is normally a bright, friendly person, but was either:

a) Injected with the rage virus, thus ushering in the first stages of the zombie apocalypse

b) Filled with self-righteous anger based on their particular mental triggers developed through cultural saturation at a young age, setting them off on a holy crusade against everything that you are and symbolize, and will not rest until they have planted a flag with their face on it into your charred remains.

c) they just mad cuz they let a dolphin stick its penis in them lol

The appropriate thing to is to be very, very calm. Some Xanax should help with this. Then, you need to go to your Xanga blog editor. Go to "Photos". Upload a photochopped picture of them with jizz all over their face. Then write the following line: "Hey, [insert their name here], you got jizz all over your face!", then click "save changes". Using this process, you will always be able to remain calm, and respond to their childishness in an adult manner that will show everyone who's the boss, which is you!

Bonus text (stuff I wanted to put in the opening rampage-thingy, but didn't):

I CALLED T3H POLICE LIKE THREE TIMES on you, and you're gonna go to jail, BITCH

Listen kid. You want to die?

I am seriously about to stab you.

Your face is ugly; your odor is horrendous!

FUCK YOU, YOU RUSSIAN MAIL-ORDER BRIDE.

How do you deal with all da haters?

I love when people ask me this question, I simply love it. As those syllables spill from their mouths, shivers of euphoria pour down my spine like cascades of warm water during a shower after having shoveled snow for, like, two hours and having cold nipples. Now, you're probably wondering why I love this question so much. First of all, it treats me good, with respect, like no other question ever has. It whispers "I love you" into my ear and kisses me softly, and holds me tight when I'm feeling blue, and when I feel like the sky is always grey, it shines beautiful rays of sunshine down onto my face. It tells me I'm beautiful when I feel disgusting. It opens doors for me and when motorcycle-riding ninjas attack, it doesn't scream like a pussy and leave me in a dark alley to be raped. Our sex is amazing.

Oh dear... I think I may have said too much. Crud.

But I love this question, because when someone is trying to make small-talk with me when I'm stocking shelves with boxes of kleenexes, I turn to them and say "Excuse me, I'm trying to do my thankless job here." and then they look at me like I just hawked a loogie in their face and ask "What is your problem!?", as if. You know, as if. AS IF. First of all, they're assuming I have just one problem. I have many problems. Second, do they seriously want to know? Imagine if I turned to them and said "Well, I recently ran out of Vagisil and my itchy crotch is irritating me, and on top of that, my cat has a bladder infection and the vet bill for shots is 500,000 dollars." then, being the thoughtful little people they are, would come up with some clever one-step solutions to every problem, like "Just use some duct tape." or simply go "I'm sorry to hear that, but you don't need to be so rude." but listen; I do in fact, need to be rude.

So, I was sitting at a very sophisticated coffee shop with World Wide Web wireless magic witchcraft shit, right? And it wasn't Starbucks. Definitely not. But I was there, brutally pounding away on the keyboard of my laptop that I borrowed, but planned to break from my intense typing, and all of a sudden, this guy says "Excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice that you were typing very loudly, and if you could type quieter, I would appreciate it." I sat silently, because there were no words. In the entirety of human communication, there aren't words that can possibly come close to properly expressing the level of stupidity in his request. "Are you kidding me?" I said, and he cleverly retorted with "Yeah."

I laughed, then whipped off my glasses dramatically, or attempted to, but they clung to one of my ears, so they came off very awkwardly, but he got the point.

"Do you even realize that I am Celebrity on Xanga?" I scoffed, adding "You're an insect to me, and I am a shoe, and I step on you."

"What is your problem?" he asked.

I reached into my bag, and pulled out a sai. As soon as he saw it, his eyes widened, and he shuffled away nervously, realizing that his life could've ended right there. I was then asked to leave by the management.

I changed a few tiny minor details in this story, like the name of the guy, who was named Peter or something, but I changed his name to "The guy" to protect his identity. Also, by the way, whenever you say "identity", you also are saying "titty", you perv!

So I ask you,

What is your problem?

This question was sort of hard for me to answer, but I felt like I had to do it, because it's the goddang Featured Question, duh! I have so many things I treasure: My Family, The perception that I'm free, Chapstick, A box full of naked barbies, My Posh-Spice bobble-head, The Carpet in my house, My pimples, Treasure chest filled with gold coins, Memories of my childhood, Memories my alien abduction that I was able to restore through hypnotism, Hanukkah, My fuckin' Swear Jar which probably has like 80 dollars in it, My Enrique Inglesias CD, My pet rock Johnny, 5 lbs of pure orange kush (NOT REALLY!), The voices in my head, The voices in my kidneys, The voices in my tibia, Cannibalism, My Utada Hikaru poster that I pray to every evening before I go to sleep, My Hilary Duff poster that I throw one egg at every morning, My porcupine pal, et cetera.

You know, there are so many things that I prize. For example, I have a Karate trophy that shows that I got third place at a tournament, which I display proudly in my room despite that fact that there were only three people in my division, counting myself, but I still show it to guests. "Yeahhhh." I say with a smile, "I'm pretty much a badass." and then I ask them if they'd like to touch my trophy. After they hold it for like five seconds, I'm like "Alright, that's enough." and snatch it away to place back on display. Fuck yeah.

My most prized possession, though, is this soul that I possess. Just to clarify, it's not my soul. You know how certain people just get possessed by demons and then acquire the ability to eat glass and turn their heads all the way around? Well, instead of being possessed by a demon, that person got possessed by ME. Ironically, I possessed the soul of an Exorcist, and even more ironically, he sought counselling and medication to treat me.

I just answered this Featured Question; you can answer it too!