I'll never understand how I've turned out the way I have.
That stupid psychology textbook implied that my childhood makes me a potential serial killer or child molester. Being neither of the two, I'm beginning to think that the universe is out of balance. How can the words in a book be wrong? Or maybe I'm still in the process of reaching that conclusion. Whatever it means, science stays messing with my stuff. Time and all that mumbo-jumbo, making my bosses think I'm late for work. It's bull spit.
Now that I think about it, books are usually fiction. It's only TV that gives you the truth because if it's on TV, then it must be real. That must be why I stay away from that box of evil they call television. All it does is fill minds with reality, dulling imagination while taking away what once was original thought. I refuse to let this TV steal my ideas before I get to think of them.
A co-worker accused me of being in need of female companionship, saying that I seem really frustrated. She talks all this crap to me, and she doesn't even offer to help me out. She tries to act like a therapist and all, but she doesn't even finish the work day with a happy ending. Next time I see her, I will let her know. "Don't complain to me about my life unless you touch my peepee first." That'll show her.
Sometimes, this stuff just doesn't make sense.
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