How bad would that suck? I don't want to die in an elevator. I don't want to live in an elevator either. In fact, I'm going to completely boycott elevators, at least until I need to get to the next floor of a building.
So yesterday I was hanging out with some friends (names and locations have been changed for legal reasons). Anyway, me, Crash Bandicoot, Sarah Palin and some others are chillin in a house that Ms. Palin was house sitting, and there was a dog. Well they said it was a "dog". SIDE NOTE: If you don't appreciate people talking meanly about animals, skip the next several lines (or put on your big kid pants and deal with it, your choice). Most of you know, but I have a strict personal rule about so-called "dogs". It's called the "Ten Foot Rule". This simply means that if I can drop-kick the "dog" more than ten feet, I do not consider it a dog. More so it's proof that every now and then Mother Nature drops the ball. Nevertheless, I was nothing but cordial to this miniature abomination, and just stayed away. Oh, and contrary to the accusations, I had nothing to do with the little rat being put in the microwave (not that I disapproved of it, in my opinion, if it fits in the microwave, it belongs in the microwave). The ONLY redeeming factor of the little yipyaps is that their existence solely disproves the Darwinian Theory, because according to that theory, the little punks should have been overrun and eaten by larger more sophisticated animals such as, but not limited to: mentally challenged squirrels, handicapped rats, or any other naturally superior being.
And while we're talking about furniture, it has been brought to my attention that my living room has the comfort and leisure qualities of a 13th century dungeon. So naturally, me being the King of decorating, interior beauty, and all around hospitality, I have done nothing. So far I have three options: The first is to go thrifting and yard sale shopping in an attempt to legitimately furnish the living room area. The second (which, let's be honest, is far more practical), is to buy around 25 bean bags and coat the floor with them. Thirdly, after thorough research, I discovered that 500 plastic ball pit balls (found in any fast food playplace) costs a mere $109.50. I am open to any ideas, but I implore you to crank up your imagination and work with me here: You get home, drop your school bag, keys, hamster, or whatever else you're holding at the time and run at a full sprint and swan-dive into your living room. Yea. That's what I'm talking about. If that didn't result in a mental explosion of unbelievable happiness, then I recommend Zoloft (talk to your doctor to see if Zoloft is right for you).
Besides miniature sorry excuses for animals and living room plans, I don't have much on my mind.
I am however, worried that I've lost the ability to eat breakfast. Maybe it's a fear, I don't know. I just googled what a fear of breakfast would be called, and it didn't come up with anything. It would probably be something like "breakphobia".
Anyway, aside from my battle with breakphobia, I'm just ready for everybody to make the grand return to Chico, I'm getting bored here.
You stay classy, Planet Earth.
Shout out to Lexi Wilson.
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