Life Is Like A Box Of Chocolates.

That is if those chocolates were all penises being shoved into every oriface I posses with the enthusiasim of Pee-Wee Herman in an adult theater. God damn, shit has gotten real up in this bitch! Work is bending me over as if I was a two dollar whore on sale for a buck-fitty, Christmas vacation was more stressfull than restful, and I swear upon Gotopus' holy Rorschach test that if my parents don't smarten the fuck up I'm going to get emancipated. I have stories. Fuck me, do I have some stories but I have to find the time to put those motherfuckers down on paper. Truth be told, I've also been in a bit of a funk and haven't felt motivated to do much of fucking anything. However I'm leaving for vacation next Saturday and I'll be cock-smoked if I don't find time to vent and return my beloved store to the glory it once was. That is, if I can take my computer on the plane (fucking terrorist taint bleacher!)  or if I'm not in jail for murder. See, I'm taking a vacation with my parents and let's just say that I already have three kids, I didn't have any intention of adopting two more middle-aged ones. (See! Stories!)

Stay tuned my magnificent motherfuckers. Shit is about to hit the industrial strength fan. (This, of course, causes said shit to splatter all over every wall in the office as well as the floor. While you may think this is bad, it's quite fun to watch these fucking goat spelunkers step in it and fall on their asses.)

Kisses, bitches.