It Is What It Is, And It Ain't What It Is Isn't
"How do you know he's a pervert?"
"I know what I know... it's what I heard."
Word.
And other fucked up convo's you have while completely drunk and don't even remember once the video tape's replaying your dumb ass funny comments.
"It's what I know."
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Okay, so here's what really pisses me the fuck off about yesterdays bitch fest over me having my dog in the car.
It was at work.
And for the record I would just like to restate, he was in a parking GARAGE. Fuck man. I know I'm a bit defensive, but here's the thing, how do I know that one of these bitches won't be upset that building management isn't reading me the riot act and complain to the SPCA or some other policing bullshit that will come by my house and threaten to take my dog?
I mean.
I paid a lot of money for that fucking dog.
I'll kill it before I let someone else play with my new toy!!!
So here's the reason that I brought (and occasionally bring) the puppy to work. About once a week I have to head off after work to either San Francisco or Hayward. This, for me, is an hour trip. From work. And I CAN'T leave the puppy at home alone for 24 fucking hours locked up in the goddamned fucking bathroom without food or potty.
FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT MEDDLERS! GAH
So I have to bring him. Not a problem. EXCEPT, I live a half hour away from work, so that adds an additional hour to my commute time, which would bring me to a total of three hours on the road, plus nine hours at work, etc. etc. you get the fucking point.
So what do I do? Bring the puppy to work anyway and risk SPCA showing up on my fucking doorstep because a bunch of fucking liberal bitches don't understand one fucking thing about biology and are INFUCKING capable of understanding what REAL dog abuse is?
Add on ANOTHER fucking hour to my already HEINOUS commute?
omg. right now i am so mad that i want to kick in those bitches teeth, grab the shards out of their mouths, smash them into the pavement, then cut off all their hair. i'm so fucking evil and i don't give a shit.
Or, and this was the last option suggested by my friend last night, pay 35 fucking dollars to the doggy day care next to my work so that I can save myself the hour commute time AND the spca complaint.
35 bucks a day means 140 bucks a month.
140 bucks a fucking month.
a
fucking
month.
I have never, ever, wanted to kick a female in the crotch so bad before.
The worst part of this? Izzy loves it when I bring him to work. He goes for a walk at lunch time. He sees me every two hours. He rides on my lap to and from, sticks his head out the window, and plays in the empty part of the parking lot on my break. It's like fucking disneyland to him.
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Darling. 2 am. 70 mph on the freeway and I am ddrunk drunk drunk. Reminiscing. Which is always the worst. I didn't close my eyes, but still you were there. Freeway signs passing, memories flashing. 70 mph and you were there.
Ang got a DUI. You don't know Ang, and that's not the point. The point is that I don't erratically shift lanes right now. The point is pools and decks and bikinis and me dancing erotically across the backyard while you said, "I didn't know you could do that."
That.
That's the point.
All the times you wouldn't dance with me.
