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Fucking Fuck

I know that my title to my blog today is something pretty rich and hearty in the ways of grammar and higher knowledge, but I am so fucking tired of trying to get a job, but not only trying to get a job, I'm tired of those god damn mission statements and the futtin shit you have to put up with when you do get a job. "Here at cunt-mart you have to be a Team-Player! You need to instill our values to the customer to insure their happy slappy mother fuckin great time in our store!" "Now for some words from an "actual worker" here, Allison Bitchface(payed actor((actual name))). "Hi, I'm Allison Bitchface and I'm going to tell you how it is working here! There is a friendly invironment with many motivated workers. We all do our jobs stocking up the cunts on the shelves and sticking the shiny dildo of hard work in our asses. All of us enjoy working here, and our outfits are so comfy! :) :) :)!!!!" Now then, let's hear from an actual worker, "I'm larry, I've been working here for 14 years and I just now got a fifty cent raise. I can finally afford two forties from my favorite liquor store and some crack from behind my favorite liquor store. I've been divorced five times and I have been in the same dead ass end job for all five." Ok, so MAYBE I'm being a pessimist when I say that all jobs are like this, but I really don't think so. Which brings me to my next point, why in the HELL would you join the national forces?! Now your boss yells at you ten times louder and he has a fucking gun! Ok, so that's not really my "next" point per say, but I'm just ranting anyways. All of the jobs I've ever had, I've never ever wanted to work any harder than I had to. You know why? It's so fuckin hard to be self-motivated when your job entails sitting, standing, or any other position, pittering. Just pittering. I'm good at music, but musicians don't get paid money, Marines do.
-Lindsey

Ok so I thought that would be a good last line, but it just made me want to rant even more. Ok so even though it's a pretty noble thing to die for our country, it's just a stupid ass idea. I would die for a better cuntry(yes) maybe. I would never die for this gun totin', god worshipping, piece of shit nation. I would die for Yemen or Oman over this country, and I don't know anything about them. Whatever, Fuck it.
-Lindsey

I was a teenage fast food nation.

I'm not a teenager,

Today I got my paycheck and I went to get some gas and some food, after I got gas I went across the street to wendy's, it seemed harmless. Before I knew it I was turning into the fast food nation, overendulging in the sweet sloppy sweaty greasy burger and the inexplicable fries. I had taken a bite of the economy and I had taken a bite of the percentage of fat in the U.S. I had even gone so low as to put more salt on the inexplicable fries, I was the fast food nation. I drank the drink and ate the eat, and I (pause) pooped the poop.
-Lindsey

Day for Music

Today was a good day for music, for as I was driving in my vehicle of transport and listening to my favorite station, I had the funs! I pulled up to a car who was also "jammin out". I said to her R.E.M, "hey it's the cranberries." in an excited tone, as it came on the radio. Thus was the day of music.

I yell at morons from my car.

Rice

Here I am to give the unwealthy a tip perhaps, for I too have run into many a wealth issue. If you get your phone wet you put it rice ya turkies!

स्माल टॉक.

Today the anxiety piles on as I drive and as I go to the move store. I pick up a movie, one with the crazy antics that are descriptive of this world. The kind of antics where everyone tries to top each other in some kind of a nostalgic fantasy of comedic timing, it usually works. It's also funny (mood swings, celexa and cytalopram 500 MG's = I don't got nomo :( let us continue.). As I picked up a movie I noticed that everyone around me was overwhelmingly strange, and I thought to myself, well I'm the strange one... but even so, I just wanted to get out. Like I said, the anxiety was piling on and people didn't help. As I was checking out I thought I'd talk to the cashier to calm my nerves. I saw on his arm a tattoo which legibly wrote something not very legible: PFC Somethingorsomething. I don't exactly know what it said so I just said, "Private first class?", and he said, "That's for my friend who served in the army with me." Side note, he seemed not even 19 let alone had served his time in the army. "He got hit by a roadside bomb.", He said as I was completely taken aback, all I could squeeze out was, "oh, sorry." He said also, "He didn't need that." and I said back "Nobody needs that." He politely agreed. He handed me my movie and I told him to have a good day, and he did back. So in my attempt to start small talk I was given a story and an image. Both of which were disturbing, but the kind of non-fiction we see in the world. I just found it interesting that there may be no such thing as small talk besides the weather, and I never want to have it.
-Lindsey