Love Don't Live Here Anymore

Note: I wrote this blog entry at 2:17 am last night. I did not immediately post it because my mother refuses to pay for anything but dial-up (it’s the cheapest), which is so damn slow that they are just paying for me to fucking ignore it. It was taking forever for the window to load so I just turned off the internet altogether, typed it up as a word document, and saved it to upload from my sister’s apartment (where the broadband is found). The following was on my mind at the time last night...

My house makes me fucking angry. I want to smash my lap top into millions of tiny little pieces. Here’s why:

The big old TV in my living room is older than me. I mean, it’s a fucking antique; I suspect it once belonged to Jesus. Unfortunately there’s nothing divine about this piece of shit. Even though the TV and I grew up together and have seen some good times in the many years we’ve lived under the same roof, it just will not stop torturing me. It has a habit of shielding whatever it is that I’m trying to watch with an annoyingly faint green tint that will NOT go away no matter how hard I hit that fucking box. Oh MY GOD… It makes everyone on TV GREEN. WHAT THE FUCK?! Besides the fact that it might be an artifact of religious significance for my mother, I feel that we haven’t gotten rid of it because the picture is not green ALL of the time. In fact, my family can go months without a hint of this green veil of evil (oh I’m so clever). And when it does happen, it doesn’t shroud my channel surfing… or lame ass celebrity poker. Oh NO, it only gets between me and whatever object of my desire; and it’s always something that’s really amazing (it just happened to be COPS just a few short minutes ago). It does this just to spite me, I know it. The worst part is that there is absolutely nothing I can do to seek revenge against the TV. Its feelings don’t get hurt when I call it a fucking bitch ass bastard at the top of my lungs. It does not get bruised when I smack it in the screen with my hard flip flop. And it most certainly does not cry or bleed when I beat it with its own worthless remote- did I mention that the remote does not respond to batteries? That’s right, I have to get off my pretty little ass EVERY TIME and press the fucking button in PERSON. It’s just a sad, sad situation.

At least I’ve figured out the only thing that will alleviate my rage- I must set the television on fire. Yes ladies and gentlemen, the only way that the fucking TV will suffer is by melting. I want its stupid screen to burst, its straggly little wires to sear, and its ugly fake oak finish to sizzle due to the blazing flames that will devour that bitch right before my eyes. MUAHAHAHA!!

Unfortunately, this is the one thing I can’t do because the TV is INSIDE the damn house; and I can’t do it outside because it’s too heavy for me to lift… fucking fat ass. I hate this; I’m getting a migraine just thinking about how much I despise the fucking TV (instead of feeling less angry like I thought I would). Ok, I’m going to bed now. I’ve had it with this Godforsaken box…. But I swear, I will take that metal baseball bat from the ugly little boy across the street and pound it over and over again until I feel it in my soul that the TV has felt enough pain for the torment it puts me through every time I try to be with it… or until my arms start hurting, or until I break a nail or whatever else will require me to put the weapon down.

Oh, and I’m sleeping at my sister’s house tonight.

-Brokie