Wednesday, November 2, 2011

I want to be a Mafia Princess

YES. You know you're jelly. JELLY MELLY!

Sooooo guess what tomorrow is?!!?! DISECTION DAYYYY!! Now normally I would be spitting moral qualms all over the place, but I really don't care. I mean I care, but not enough to sacrifice 80% of my total Anatomy grade for. Sorry morals, I'll see you in a few weeks when the kitties go in their kitty coffins. Then we will once again belong together forever.

My kitty's name is going to be Banjo. BECAUSE HE'S CUTER THAN YOU. Just kidding, you're adorable ;D (<-------- super awkward pedophile creepy wink!) Just in case you weren't quite sure how it was intended.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH it's November!!!!!!!! You know what that means ONE MONTH TIL MAH BIRTHDAY!!! Isn't that exciting?

Ahh birthdays, the one time of the year when you can act like a total douche and no one can say anything back. Also, the time to break out THE BIRTHDAY BALLOONS.

Now I don't know about you guys, but birthdays at my high school are a really big thing. Firstly because, no matter who you are, who you know or better yet, who you don't know, by the end of the day you WILL know the birthday girl. And I only say girl because I've yet to see a boy complete the phenomena. What is this "birthday girl" fantasy of which I speak? Well listen close young ones, you're about to find out.

The tale of Birthday Girl began much before my time. It was a legend, told to me by my big brother and my aunts and uncles before him. IT WAS MAGICAL. You would walk into school and everyone would stare at you with wonder and amazement. YOU were the Birthday Girl and it was YOUR time to shine.

Or so I thought.

The magic that was the Birthday Girl story turned out to be a bunch of squashed potatoes without a blender. So, it was pretty much crap.

Alas, the epic of Birthday Girl was nothing but a sham. It's not that Birthday Girl doesn't exist, it's that she doesn't deserve any damn capital letters and magical stories. She more likely deserves a punch in the face from the entire school. Now not everything about birthday girl is fake, just almost everything. Like her name. It's not Birthday Girl with magical sparkles and unicorns and glitter, NO her name is birthday balloon girl (BBG) and she is the high school equivalent of a terrorist. Oh yes, I did. 

Firstly, when you walk into school, people WILL stare at you. But not in amazement and wonder, more in remorse and hatred. The thought, "GODDAMNIT NOT ANOTHER ONE!" will indeed be running through everybody's mind. Because the horror of birthday girl has just been confirmed.

Now, what a tale would this be without some awesome pictures? Now why didn't I use the perfect circles to make birthday balloon girl's head?

BECAUSE SHE'S A GODDAMNED TERRORIST! God, weren't you listening?!?!

That's one attractive girl though, I must say. See BBG? This is how you make me feel. You make me feel like I want to go buy a kitten and have the following dialogue with someone.

"Hey, I bought you a kitten."

Thanks a lot BBG, killing kitties one balloon at a damned time.

You wanna know what else BBG? You make everyone feel this way. NOT JUST ME. Because you're all struttin' in your obnoxious stillettos going, "IT'S MY BIRTHDAY AND I'LL-" and then the masses scream out, "NO ONE FUCKING CARES!" but then you're "gurlfrannns" (whatever the fuck that means. what are you, grammar deaf?!) start going, "AWW NO THEY DIDNNNNNNN'T, GURRRLL IMMA EFF YOU UP" and you would again shout your original statement but by this time you've seething reached your destination and you thank god for doors.

And would you like to know why I honestly hate birthday balloon girl? It's because of one tiny little thing. Just one teensy weensy miniscule problem.


Now once upon a time, I was birthday balloon girl. Except, I wasn't the girl in the picture. I had a lone balloon that sent the message that in was my birthday and I got nice birthday wishes from everyone and even people I didn't know. Did I smack everyone in the face with my balloons. No. BECAUSE I'M NOT A TERRORIST LIKE YOU.

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