Man, these last few days sucked

When I say sucked, I mean sucked with the vehemence and conviction that a five or six year old saying the word would have. The kind where they thrust out their lower lip and scrunch up their nose and say, "That sucked," and they don't know what fellatio is yet so you have the urge to correct their word usage but damn they are angry.

I am attempting to convey that these days sucked majorly, bro/broette.

First off, last weekend wasn't a good time for my stomach. I ate in quantities both large and small, and I did so continuously. In the future, a nuclear war will wipe out most of the population of earth. The few remaining will live primitive lives, dominated by praying to Gods that will not hear them and fucking the shit out of things that were never intended to be fucked.

The huge monuments that these scared, frightened mutants will build to their gods will resemble what passed from my intestinal tract and into the realms of legend.

So, I wake up on Monday and, due to this horrific consumption fit, I fart. I do not like to fart when I wake up, because then I'm trapped by my own laziness. The few seconds before any odor reaches me are the worst. The anticipation is terrible, and in my mind, there's a little voice saying get up get up you idiot why are you throwing your life away maybe someday you'll get a microwave with accuracy down to .5 seconds so that you can evenly cook something that has a recommended cook time of 2:30-3 minutes oh jesus. As the stench finally rolled over me, all I could think was I am the worst man that ever lived. I am satan.

It happens to be my last week of high school, so I had to get up, go to school, sit in class, and be bored for a while. Then, I go home. Ah, blessed relief. Unfortunately, instead of taking a nice, long, cooling shower, my drain backs up. So I take a nice, short, room temperature foot soak in filth instead, and that's all right, but you know. It's not really ideal. It is by no means what I would choose for myself, given God like powers over matter, time, and free will.

The next day, no gas, no horrible stomach cramps. The worst, I feel, has passed, and so I set out jolly and comfortable on my bicycle for school. On the way, a delightful man decides that traffic signs are outdated modes of communication, and their existence must be protested. In a show of solidarity with his political uprising, I get hit by him. The crumpled wheels of my bicycle are a brilliant, dazzling message to the fat cats in Washington: Whoa, dudes, some guy, like, is not obeying traffic signals.

To summarize: a bloo bloo bloooh