I failed my very first Discrete Math test today. I'm not to be blamed. How can I be expected to study when I spend all of my time thinking of smart-ass answers to the test questions?
I've found that I get some sort of sick satisfaction out of failing math tests. I enjoy making it very clear to my math teacher that I do not give a shitting shit about his class. For example:
Q. What is the multiplication principle of probabilities?
A. When an event is likely to occur, said event may occur.
Technically, that answer is not incorrect. It is, indeed, true that an event may occur when an event may occur. Redundant, yes, but still true. If I say that a rocket ship carrying Anthony Hopkins (wearing his Hannibal Lechter mask, of course) may come crashing through the roof at some unspecified time of day, I can not be considered wrong. It is possible that this may happen. Not plausible, perhaps, but still possible. I mean, hell, anything is possible these days, what with the gene splicing and the test tube babies and the frogs with the glow-in-the dark eyes (Side note: CREEPY). I'm sure that some "scientist" somewhere has considered observing what would happen if he were to strap A. Hops to a rocket and launch it into outer space. Why wouldn't he? That would be friggin' awesome (assuming he doesn't die).
And yes, I do default to the pronoun "he" when referring to a situation in which the gender of the subject is unknown. I'm sexist against my own people.
Hey, what do you tell a woman with two black eyes?
Nothing; she's already been told twice.
Gasp.
Oh my God, Heather, you can't just say stuff like that. Domestic abuse is a serious problem in the world today.
You know what else is a serious problem in the world today? Leg hair thicker than Will Smith's afro in "Fresh Prince". Go learn to use a razor, Liza Minelli.
Wow, I wasn't expecting to go off and start ranting in this post. Sorry, it's just that "feminists" make me really, really angry. Notice the quotations. They are to show that I'm referring to Facebook feminists. You know who you are.
I understand the whole "womens' suffrage" thing; that's all find and good with me. I like that I'll be able to vote in the next election and make a name for myself in a profession other than nursing or homemaking (as I would be completely useless in either). What really gets my goat are the self-righteous, hypocritical "pseudo-feminists" who are omnipresent in the "Discussions" page on many Facebook groups. Really? You're just making yourself look like even more of an idiot, if that's even possible. Do some research, learn the difference between "their" and "there", turn off Hannah Montana, and come back when you're able to form a cohesive argument. Also, learn the meaning of "sense of humor". You obviously know your way around the Facebook and the Twitter. It's time to become acquainted with another marvelous website, known to most moderately intelligent people as Dictionary.com.
I wish I had some way of knowing how many people actually typed "sense of humor" into the Dictionary.com search bar.
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Okay, that's the end of my rant for the time being. To lighten the mood, I will share with you an acrostic poem of epic proportions. It is entitled, "My Life Is Meaningless And I'm Going To Take This Knife And Slit My Wrists Because I Like It, Part II" or as it is more commonly (un)known, "DEATH":
Damn all the phonies who try to make me "see the light". The only light I need is the one at the end of the tunnel, and even then I don't want it, because all I want to do is descend into darkness.
Every single time I see a happy family, I set up a tripwire and watch them break their necks, one by one. Except for the children; there's still hope for them. I at least owe them to the chance to see just how meaningless their existence is.
At the meeting place of depression and anxiety lies a knife engraved with my initials. I bring it up to my wrists, then forget what I was doing in the first place and use it to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Ten times a day AT LEAST, I like to think about my sickness and how much better it makes me than everyone else, because how else would I write beautiful, provocative poems such as this one? That's right. I wouldn't. And then all the other phonies with their crappy, angsty poetry would never see how much better I am than them, and they would never know to bow to me, and make me their leader.
How on God's green earth have I managed to write this Pulitzer Prize-worthy poem in under five minutes? The world may never know. It can't be because I'm just using cliches I found in 20,000 other poems in my life and sticking them together like a grade school research paper. No. It can't be that...
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You're welcome.
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