September 7th, 2001


Hugh Phuket is here to see you, sir.

I am mad. And hungry. But mostly angry. And hungry. I would like to slap somebody. But it's very hard to make threats when your stomach keeps growling.
I went to McDonald's after school with Kris, right? (Sam loves McDonalds more than she loves any other food, except maybe world class chocolate ice cream at Baskin Robbins.) Now, food at McDonald's ain't so cheap anymore and I ain't so rich anymore, so when I buy food there I like to eat all of it. But I don't eat food in large doses, so I always take my shake and fries home. I left my fries on the kitchen table and went up to my room and went to sleep for a little while, and at eight o'clock I woke up and decided I'd like to eat my french fries now. So I go downstairs and that mother of mine (bitch! Honestly...) has gone and thrown my french fries away! That's money she's tossing away, you know! And more importantly, what am I supposed to eat now? Her cooking is crap, so I can't eat that...and I'm huuuuuuunnnnngrrrrrryyyy...

I'm worried about me. (Because I have a big ego.) This week my back has been killing me (it started hurting a couple of days ago and it was really bad yesterday. Today sucked, too, but that was more my leg than anything else.) I live in terror that I might have that one disease that they check you for in 8th grade, even though I tested okay then. I think maybe I'll set up a schedule with a chiropractor, because it was so hard to concentrate during physics with little flashes of pain every few minutes. But anyway, I decided that sleep deprivation and eating my mom's food is going to kill me, and when I die I'll get a crappy coffin because that's what'll be on sale.

Damnit, I want my french fries.