I think I’m turning into that crusty old guy down the block. The one who uses his cane to hit the ankles of nearby small children and threatens to take a shotgun to anyone who dares step on my pathetic patch of brown grass. Except without the shotguns, because obviously. I can’t properly use a pickaxe, who in their right mind would give me a gun?
Answer: Las Vegas.
No seriously, on an entirely unrelated tangent, I’m on a kick to go to Vegas, eat waffles, and shoot guns. Do not ask me how I have decided that this is the pinnacle of awesome – it just is.
See, my crustiness starts here: I’ve started to hate the doorbell ringing. It’s like junk mail, in human form. Either I get some assjacket who wants to sell me some crap I’ll never need, some kid wants to play with MY kid (negating the fact that it’s 10AM and KIDS SHOULD BE IN SCHOOL, DAMMIT!) and argues with me about my kid being home while I chew my tongue, trying not to yell, WHY AREN’T YOU IN SCHOOL? Or it’s another small person who wants to sell me outrageously overpriced cookies that I don’t even want to eat.
At 31, I’ve become that crusty wench.
I just hate those awkward social interactions, where two people stand there, staring at each other, not sure exactly how to proceed. Which is what happens every time someone rings my bell.
Perhaps I should get a doormat that says “Go The Fuck Away” or an electrified moat and change my name to Mr. Wilson.
Either way, I got a cane, and I’m not afraid to wallop you youngins with it.
I wrote this. It’s about recycling. Also? It needs some comments, if’n you have the time.
And I wrote this. I suggest you stay AWAY from the comments, unless you feel like having your head chewed off.
ONE LAST THING I SWEAR OMGBBQWTF. We’re doing a Hearts! Carnival on BB2G on Sunday – stories about love, hearts, problems with hearts, and all that good stuffs. I’m going to share a couple stories about my dad.