Perpetuate Personality

For the ecstasy of being alive I don't need alcohol, speed or dope. I don't need an accelerant or any sort of organic product to put me into a state of rapture. I'm not interested in whether your palms perspire or not, don't be self-conscious about it. Take my hand either way, and let me show you my world.

Don't be afraid to show your teeth. I don't care if they're off-white or fringed with the slightest bit of plaque. Good hygiene is important and essential, but if you brush daily don't constantly perpetuate useless anxiety. Laugh with me anyway. I'm not worried whether you have braces or not. Half the time I don't pay attention. All I can see is the glow in your grin and the voluminous beauty you obtain by sharing your happiness with me. I don't see the pimples on your face. I see the spirit in your eyes and the optimism in your compassion. Your personality obliterates your blemishes, so stop fretting over them.

I don't care about what happened to you in the past, I'm only concerned with how it has affected you now. I'm not interested in how you got drunk last night or who destroyed Mary-Anne's house at the party last weekend. But I would like to know how you're feeling today, and if you would like to share a cookie with me at ten-minute break.

I'm not interested in who you were. I'm only interested in who you are and who you will become with me.

Bullocks and Donut Phlegm

Post a reply to encourage Tenneal to join the LlamaBlog. Prompt and persuade her like the peer-pressuring gaggle of mongrels you are.

My throat is clogged with donut phlegm. If you must know why, our group in History won donuts for our outstanding artistic portrayal of the Arctic. Which, as the English would say, is bullocks. I think the Shield group should have won; Aaron put much more work into his folder. But I still relish my donut phlegm like the gluttonous knob I am.

I don't like this punk rock, angst-teen, and woe-is-I attitude these days. I admit, some of the punk outfits coming out are quite swell. I saw some exceptionally dandy Hello Kitty striped arm warmers the other day that I was on the verge of procuring... I'll buy them sometime, most likely, and I'm straying from my point. Real Goth-punk is British and mangy. They aren't ostentatious. Some of them play up the 'dark and sexy' stereotype pretty damn well. Real punk isn't popular. Hell, I'm not punk. I'm preppy and I don't pretend to be anything else. I don't blame half of today's teenage-population leaning their preference to the style. Because; like the self-conscious fast-food manager population, many of them don't have a sense of self and confidence in their daily life. They don't have a backbone to straighten. This is the phase every carbon-body goes through where they find out who they are and where they fit in the world. But does that mean they have to be all morose if it becomes 'popular'?

I'm still discovering who I am, but for certain I can say that I am NOT punk rock. That may put me at odds, but so be it. I'm not going to jump off a bridge if George does. Well... maybe if George did, but I wouldn't for anybody else.

Depressing people get on my nerves, especially masochists who slice themselves for fun. It's inscrutably selfish to be suicidal. Narcissistic bastards. They don't know the real definition of 'woe'. I don't know the real definition of 'woe', but I do know about happiness. The world is tinted yellow I'm so damn merry.

In short, don't pretend to be someone you're not. The most you can do with that attitude is become a manager at McDonalds.

Corporate Slave

Bear with me, mates. I'm getting the gist of how the CSS template handles so you'll have to go with the auto-template-flow until tomorrow or even the next day.

McDonalds has turned me into a jaded, vindictive narcissist. I see that sickly smiling clown in the face of my manager, who sugarcoats everything and glues his lips to people’s asses thinking that'll keep the store afloat. Who am I kidding, isn't that 65% of the fast food industries manager population? Kiss the customers ass. Kiss the corporate agencies ass. Slather the customer in sympathy because they've been sitting in their car for three minutes behind six other cars waiting to greedily snatch their food out of our out held grasp. Oh, no! We've wasted three minutes of your precious life where you could have been sitting on the toilet taking a well-earned crap.

Don't get me wrong. Some of them are exceedingly pleasant. I don't hate the customer. I'm not like my sibling brother who was thrust into the grill area far sooner than normal because of his anti-customer policy. I willingly smile for them. I chirp merrily and fawn over their every need because it's second nature for me to be amiable. I guess you could say I bend over and take it in unhappy places so that they'll be able to come out of it saying they’re satisfied with their McDonalds experience, but that's part of fast-food employment. You sign up for it, boys and girls. The reward for being anally raped is 50% off artery-clogging food and bright, shining minimum wage.

And that's all I have for you today.