yuletide

We've had a little bit of rough times thanks to Frank, and a little more of headaches due to laundry woman who was supposed to come twice a week and failed massively due to lack of water and even more problems caused by the obvious seepage of hot-bud guys holding hands with their equally good-looking partners who also happen to have the same cucumber-looking thing hanging in the middle of their thighs. So really, it wasn’t a calamity. This year had been an absolute chaos. I have come to the realization that not even a pair of gladiator heels could suffice for the damage that had been done. And what’s worse is that no one in their right mind would allow me to wear my hooker heels to match my very elegant and slutty halter mini with the words "catch me, I am sooo available" due to the reason that I have conjured and gulped a fattening potion more commonly called rice, allowing me to bloat more than what's legally allowed in the countries who happen to compose the United Nations - combined. And as trees began to destroy bridges and cause hundreds to indulge in the super-medieval way of living, which included instant pancit canton and the not-so famous fifty-peso-five-gallon-water-container that we all know is outrageous, I found myself crying over the fact that I could not savor the best creation on earth- the internet. So ladies, allow me to shout this to all the stupid storms out there: DONT YOU DARE RUIN THIS CHRISTMAS FOR ME!!! Point made, you may all resume the little thingies, or orgies that you busied yourselves with, before you drowned your neurons with my worthless blabber about the typhoon and its effect on my personal life and their gravity on the so-called coldest and happiest day of the year - Christmas day. Well, come to think of it, I really am, just, bored. =( And if you didn’t understand what you all just read, well, too bad for you. You should buy a bit of intelligence, patience, understanding and humor. I heard they were on sale. You could suffer from an aneurysm right now, recover, and get loads of interviews from boring newscasters who are just so dying to see their sorry faces on TV, and die again due to you getting hit by a bus because you were so busy staring at the cute guy across the street who you didn’t know was mothered by the schizophrenic-ex-drug-addict who is now a self-confessed fan of the sewer minions – the rats, and due to that horrific accident you pass by St. Peter unnoticed, excitedly shake princess Diana’s hand in heaven and when you wake up to reality(by reality I mean, 25 years later with only a machine being the reason you’re dead toenail still lives to house fungus), girlfriend, I bet on my sister's life that you still would not have the slightest idea about the gibberish thoughts in my appalling, atom-sized brain.