You ever wake up and just want to flip kick a carebear? That's how I feel right now. I just want to slap Gizmo across the room, maybe punt a popple into a river and watch him attempt to swim with his tiny ass arms.
I'm not even in a bad mood. I'm just tired, cranky, and have this insane feeling of wanting to drop kick Danny Devito. I'm not even sure why I'm like this today. Maybe its lack of sleep. Maybe it's because the New York Knicks lost last night. Maybe it's because a tick named Carl crawled upon me yesterday like a drunken homeless person, trying to latch on me like some deranged Vampire that didnt even have the courtesy to ask if he can have a quick suck and go before I flicked him off into the jungles of neverland, most likely to his lonely ass life where he'd just roam the world forever alone, with no sucky sucky for the rest of his days. Fuck you Carl!
Its Hump day, but there is no humping, nor is there a fucking Camel to make me laugh. Questions pop up randomly on this brisk Wednesday morning like, "Why isnt the hunger games real?", "Why cant my dog talk?" , and "Why doesnt anyone ever adopt a garbage pail kid?" My mind races around a neverending loop of random insanity, chaotic most times, as it plays ideas and memories that are stuck in my head like a movie.
But enough of that, I have to get ready for work, half asleep, and half ready to fight Tiny Tim. I assume today will go by like the rest of them, with no alien abduction, no Sci fi war, no zombie apocalypse, and no cure to the insane people of today. Maybe Batman had it right, maybe throwing shiny pointy things at the criminally insane would make the planet a better place.
The Game of thrones writers who fucked season eight up should be imprisoned. Star wars is to blame, so is Kathleen Kennedy. Ok, enough of my nonsensical babble, I need to go get ready to fight Kriss Kross.
Happy Hump Day!