There is a child just outside the apartment below me just absolutely screaming its head off. It is making the most offensive, wretched sound I have ever heard come from a human being ever before in my life. It sounds like it’s on fire. Do normal people gasp with sympathy, “I wonder what’s wrong—I hope he’s okay!” ? Because I am wondering what I could do to end its life while minimizing any major cleanup or legal consequences afterward. If it would just stop making that horrid, dreadful sound. Until it ceases to project this detestable sound however, I am going to start brewing up death threats to call down to its parent-figure one floor below.
Why do children have to be so god-awful? Don’t they understand that no one likes screeching? Nobody wants a wailing, noisy child around. No one. Don’t kids want to be liked? Isn’t that why they start doing drugs so early nowadays, to fit in? Why haven’t they caught on? Is there no reasoning with children? Don’t they comprehend that shrieking like a howler monkey is only going to make them grossly unpopular and probably spanked in public? Ugh. I wish paddling children was still socially acceptable and not considered child endangerment/abuse. I think it would really cut down on the fit-throwing that children insist on.
The heat really needs to stop. Things inside of my refrigerator are becoming cooked because of the weather outside. Just this morning I opened the fridge expecting to see a package of deli ham and some fresh fruit, only to find a pork pot roast and a peach cobbler, steaming away. I am so terribly thirsty. I am thirstier than Jonathan Taylor Thomas in I’ll Be Home For Christmas. It has been so humid this week that a fish could survive out of water out here. It’s doing terrible, horrible things for my appearance and overall well-being. I feel like I’m drowning when I inhale. Pretty sure that’s not supposed to happen. My lungs have filled with fluid. I’m going to suffocate to death. Send your condolences.
This Saturday, July 24th will be my 22nd birthday. Boy do I love birthdays. Not sure why. I think my mother has really played the largest part in molding my enthusiasm for special occasions, as she is the master-decorator, festivity-enthusiast, and parcel-building extraordinaire of the century. I am feverishly looking forward to the arrival of her birthday package. It’s going to be glorified with dozens upon dozens of sparkling, glittery stickers, large, bold writing, a card fit for a 10 year old, and enough treats to solve world hunger inside. I can hardly wait. Brownies! I can smell them already, wherever they might be. Ohio. Indiana. The western hemisphere of Pennsylvania. Who knows. UPS hasn’t kept us in the loop.
Trent and I are spending Saturday and Sunday in Philadelphia in celebration of me growing out of my infancy (slowly but surely). We have reservations for an Italiano Ristorante called “L’Angolo.” 4.5 out of 5 stars out of 126 reviews; I think I’m in for a really satisfying meal. I’m going to stuff myself with Italian food like there’s no tomorrow. Mmmm.
I’ll be in a food coma until next Wednesday. Talk to you then.
“I got ridiculed all day long at a field trip to the pool by two third-graders for having “moobs,” a.k.a “man boobs.” F**k my job.”