My Local Library

Currently I am sitting on a wooden stool, blankly staring at a greasy flat-screen monitor, eyeing between commas a young punk boy with deliciously blonde hair sitting a few screens away. He has a very nice face, considering the fact that he looks about sixteen, and has one of those pre-pubescent mustaches, the kind that are barely visible in certain lights and KAPOW LOOK AT ME in others. He's talking to the computer screen, or at least mouthing words to it. But I digress.

I just took a shit in public. For like, the first time ever. [discluding all times previous to age 5] And it was not as bad as it could have been. I thank the God of Sex and Drugs and ROCK AN' ROLL that I didn't have like, a horrible case of explosive diarrhea or something. It was just that I would have died if I hadn't taken that shit. I would have keeled over in Emily's bedroom, gasped for air, and then died. And my bowels would release in a furious fit of joy, like somebody humming Hallelujah in the background, and they would remember that. They would put on my headstone, "Andi Palmer - She died like she lived. With a tight ass." The only problem with this public display of defecation is that the goddamn library toilets don't flush very well, and even if you didn't totally just have explosive diarrhea, it's still not going to go down without a fight. I kid you not.
I hereby apologize to the patrons of the Salt Lake City Public Library Women's Restroom. I didn't want you all to face such an awful fate as my waste, but then again, you kind of deserve it.

Too many times have I stumbled into that bathroom, needing to piss this bad, and all the toilets are clogged with tissue paper and TAM. POONS. Hey, public library! I've got a word of advice: UM. HOW ABOUT HIGH POWERED FLUSHES. You know, like the kind that actually sweep away the toilet's contents. [The question mark on this keyboard doesn't work.]

Earlier today, as in like a half an hour ago, I was forced to register at Strest Hell School. I say Strest because I could actually feel stress seeping through the walls. I could feel the pain of those many other teens like me, who had swallowed their pride when they were shoved into a locker. Or whose notebooks were ripped from their hands only to be read aloud at lunch. And this is why I hate my life. I uttered "I wish I were dead" so many times that the wish monster is on back order. I uttered "I hate this place" so many times that the halls of Strest are to forever echo with my curses. This day, I did not dress outwardly rebellious. I did not deck myself in chains, nor studs, nor metallic face accessories, though my lip ring has successfully converged into a hoop. But this was not enough! No, the students of Strest [last name L-M] are mostly compiled of young teenage mothers and scowling everyteens. They all looked the same, whether white and dressed in fabrics straight off the Forever 21 rack, or Mexican and dressed in what's classified as "ghetto fabulous," or the group of Tongan menslashboys [the slash is broken, too] who sat at the lunch table and made noise. Those were the ones who scared me the most, for they were much larger than I, and probably in a gang.

[disclaimer: I'm not implying that all Tongans are in a gang. I'm implying that at Strest, there is a gang specifically including those of Tongan descent, and they would be willing to kill me if I did something stupid like tell them to shut up.]

And this is the part where I start typing really fast, and in ALL CAPS, and I tell you just how much I'm dreading the return of school bells and infidelities.

I HATE STREST. I DON'T WANT TO GO. I HATE MY LIFE! SOMEBODY PLEASE KILL ME BEFORE I SERIOUSLY ACTUALLY HAVE TO ATTEND ONE CLASS AT THAT HELLHOLE.
though the teachersslashassistants were pretty nice.
I HOPE THAT BUILDING BLOWS UP AT A FOOTBALL GAME. WHY[question mark] BECAUSE I HATE FOOTBALL!