THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
Well, here's to my 270th entry.
God, is that ever depressing. It less than six months I have wasted enough time to write down 270 entries...And more than that. I don't even post have the shit I do write.
So. Today.
Hmmmm...What happened? Oh right.
So, like, I, like, went, like to, like, Art Camp! And, like, I swear to like Fucking GOD, that like I so hate these kids from like Palos Verdes. They are like so like spoiled.
Honestly. It makes me mad.
Today I was doing slave labor by trying to clean out these tiny little paint things without soap and without trying to ruin the whole establishment's plumbing system by pouring paint down the drains. It took me two hours to finish the job.
And then this little uber-bitch walks in (she was about 12, I think) and hands me a cup of dirty water and paint encrusted brushes.
And I quote: "Here. You can wash these. The teacher told me to wash them, but...I just don't feel like it. So you do it. Bye!"
Okay. What the hell.
The kid was twelve, not six. Do I have a sign on me that says 'Hey I like doing menial tasks for people I don't care about!" stuck on my back?
What kind of enviroment do they live in that gives them the mental authority to do shit like that?
Oh, wait, I already know.
P fucking V.
God, what a nightmare....
But, hey, no problem, right? I mean, I only have to put up with people like that for the next four years of my miniscule life, right? I only have to be in constant close proximity to them for...all of highschool!
So. Yeah, it's not so bad.
God.
I hate being mad at things. And being resentful.
Because it could be worse. Things could always be worse. And I'm not really in a position that gives me any right to complain about anything.
(Which, my friends, is another lesson learned from those people-from-up-the-hill).
So. There you go. Life on a plate.