Apart from concerns over allegations of butt piracy that would emanate from the depraved minds *and mouths* of friends and family, I find the single life far more relaxing than when I had a hag sucking away most of my time and of course my will to live. It bodes well for me then to inform you that great cans are transitory but epic booty is forever. Case in point: I've heard of breast cancer but I never heard of butt-cancer.
I find that it is thus best to ignore the silence that greets me whenever I notice mother's homuncular eye glaring with stark disapproval at my lack of motivation to "settle down". Of course she means well, as most mothers do. A lifetime of contemplating an eternity of loneliness strikes fear into the hearts of the most ruthless of women. Companionship seems to be top prio for 20 somethings. I suppose it always has been. I wonder why. Why derive a sense of self-worth from companionship or lack thereof? Personally, my pet peeve, what I hate most, is when anything touches my eye. God I hate it. Eyelash, dust, fibre, drops, i hate them all. Makes me wonder how soldiers manage to take the torture of eyeball electrocution. Too many men, far better than me, have been blinded and killed defending my country.
The second thing that comes to the minds of people (and women in general) is childreeeen. It appears that my sperm need to work now and produce offpsring, or else I am hurting mother by not giving her the pleasure of raising grand children. Did I miss the wtf bus? Firstly I'm not all that kicked about being alive. Frankly I don't get what all the fuss is about. Secondly, I don't recall asking to be conceived. So what if I was the fastest sperm? The onus of creating children and raising them to struggle in life is exactly that. It's an onus. I say I'd rather not.
Let's leave the world changing to the yuppies. I'm gonna go take a dump. Later peeps.
No comments:
Post a Comment