Kenny

Oh, butthole. I’m one tired bitch after a crazy day at the office, and to add salt to injury one of my Kenneth Cole shoes split wide open like a dilating cow. Of course, I didn’t notice that my shoe was dead until a meeting at the end of the evening, where I nellied out and squealed, “Eeeek! Kenneth is wounded!” People laughed, but I was embarrassed by my revealing moment of materialism.

Now that I’m home, I think the people that live upstairs are fucking. A heterosexual couple in their mid-fifties, they’re bouncing off the walls like gerbils on angel dust. I’ve always wanted to be thrown about my living room in the throws of ecstasy, but I guess I’ll leave that fantasy to the geriatric sex fiends above me.

Once again I’ve successfully averted going to the gym in exchange for an evening in front of the television. This isn’t a good habit. Not only is my brain being turned to tapioca, but my ass is losing some quality. My tits are smaller, too, and my snug fitting work pants are angrily suffocating my waist. Nevertheless, I enjoy making bitchy comments to my roommate and generating an opinion about The Apprentice. I think that Donald’s female minion, Caroline, is a tampon. She just reminds other people to be assholes. What use is that? Shit, pay me to sit around and make bitchy comments…I already do it for free.

Tampony women aside, I feel that I have learned something from The Apprentice tonight. I need to have a plan. I’m never going to have success without a plan, unless I’m really lucky. And I haven’t been that lucky lately considering my batting average with men and designer shoes. I need to make promises to myself and keep them, but I need to be committed to those promises. Otherwise, I’m just lying to myself...and I’ll just get mad. At myself. Then I won’t talk to myself anymore.

No one wants that.