romanreloaded

I'm a total hater when it comes to journals, especially when all my time is divided between working and trying not to kill myself during work. I suppose I'll update this weekly, every weekend. Sound good, Kevin? Good, Kevin.

I just found my old bondage pants, and my ass looks so slammin', I can't even stand it. I have to flirt with everyone on Earth with these pants on, shamelessly as to make everyone look at my tush and say "Oh my, what an ass on he!" I mean, shit, some amazing pants.

Work ate ass, as usual, for I worked with this bitch that I hate, Inna. I try not to be gossipy, 'cause only assholes and bitches are gossipy [or my mother, whom is an exception to the rule], but fuck, man, I wanna punch this bitch in the neck. I wanna slap her with my fucking testicles til she passes out cold.

But I digress.

My boss decided to tell me that I need to shape up or ship out, to which I replied "Fuck off, commie bitch! You don't own me, fucktard! I'm too good for this job! I QUIT!" Or, I would've if I wasn't such a slave to money. Instead, I nodded and went about my usual business: working for X amount of time before I get bored and then playing and chit-chatting with coworkers.

I'm trying to get accustomed to posting on the boards, which is awkward since I haven't posted on message boards for years, and even when I did, they were AOL style. Speaking of AOL, I might cut them off, since I think they're gyppin' me outta some dough. Fucking money hungry bastards. Fuck you, AOL, FUCK YOU!

... But I digress.