It was humid outside.
Elena was visiting Ethan in Manhattan for the weekend. It was the closest thing to a quiet vacation they had gotten in what seemed like months. And naturally, the former SAS Major and the girl who had previous training with the Russian KGB, courtesy of family ties, were intent on satisfying their thirst for historical knowledge by visiting the grandiose Metropolitan Museum of Art.
It took them almost three hours to finish wandering around the first floor and make their way to the second floor galleries. As they meandered towards the rooms that displayed famous paintings from Monet and Van Gogh, amongst others, Ethan grinned at a blond little boy who smiled back and bounced eagerly on his young mother’s hip.
Then, from across the gallery, came all too familiar loud popping rattling sounds that seemed to shake the entire room and everything in it.
“Fireworks!” the little boy exclaimed gleefully.
But wait…. they were indoors. This was the nationally treasured MET museum; there was no way those noises came from fireworks. Ethan’s eyes met Elena’s, and instantly, the world came to a brief standstill as the the horrific realization hit them.
“No. It can’t be…” Elena started to whisper, but words were lost as she turned ghastly pale.
They had heard the first gunshots.
Then came the screams.
Yes, the characters are the exact same from this excerpt.
There was a knock on the door.
“Director Koslov will see you now,” the young, bespectacled assistant in a tweed suit quietly announced, then led the two waiting individuals through the Bel-Air mansion foyer and into a large office. Before taking leave, he introduced the newcomers as Major Ethan Gilbert and Elena Ivanova.
“Please, just Ethan. I’m no longer with the SAS,” the former Major said.
“What would a young, retired British Special Air Service major and his friend want from an old Russian man like me?” Koslov croaked in his 80 year old Russian-accented voice. “And you, girl. You do not look Russian. Asian American perhaps. Yet you have one of our names.”
“I’m half, on my father’s side,” Elena responded. “Sir, we believe you have something that puts you in grave danger. I trust a white Gallardo Superleggera sounds familiar to you?”
The old man sat up, his interest piqued. “Yes, of course. But how did you know? And what do you mean I am in, as you put it, grave danger?” He suddenly chuckled. “Don’t tell me the Russian mafia is after my car!”
As Koslov watched Ethan exchange glances with Elena, he could only formulate two words. “Pochemu? Why?”
Without answering the question, Elena plowed on. “Tell us what you know about Anton Rykov.”
Koslov looked even more confused. “Anton Rykov? He was my son’s friend. Twenty years ago, Anton Rykov was dishonourably discharged from the Russian Spetsnaz GRU Special Forces. He and a childhood friend, Vasily Yelnatsky, joined the Solntsevskaya Bratva soon afterwards. My son, Viktor, got himself involved in the bratva, and was murdered by one of his sootechestvennik — compatriots — who had gone rogue. Rykov was the one who brought the news of my son’s death to me. But I do not understand what this has to do with me.”
Elena took a deep breath before speaking. “Director Koslov, Anton Rykov and Viktor were in the same bratva, yes, but Rykov was not a friend. He was the one who pulled the trigger on your son. Never mind how I know; there is no time to explain,” she ignored Koslov’s startled exclamations as she continued. “Rykov and Yelnatsky are considered the masterminds behind the Solntsevskaya operations. Recently, two Russian Kamov Ka-52 attack helicopters, known as ‘Alligators,’ were stolen from the Russian Air Force. American intel suggests that the Solntsevskaya is behind the theft, as Rykov and Yelnatsky aim to modify the helicopters so that they would become more dangerous and heavily armed, then sell the ‘Alligators’ to Russian terrorists for vast amounts of money.”
Ethan then took over the story. “A few months after your son, Viktor, entered the bratva, he had a change of mind and wanted out. Before he broke the news to the members of the bratva, he made a copy of the coordinates of where each of the Ka-52 is hidden, as well as the logistics behind the operation, on a computer chip, which he hid within a white Superleggera. Naturally, you don’t just get to leave whenever you desire when you get yourself involved in a bratva. Before Rykov murdered Viktor, someone within the brotherhood discovered the existence of the chip.”
“Let me guess. The Solntsevskaya, like you two, has traced it to me. Not surprising. I hear there are only 10 white Superleggeras in the world. But why should I believe you? Why would a former SAS soldier and a regular girl with Russian ancestors have information from American intelligence? Or are you, Miss Ivanova, with the American CIA?” Koslov inquired, eyeing the couple with slight suspicion.
“I work for no one. And I have had previous informal training with the Russian KGB. Family ties. Sir, can we please get to the matter on hand? We need access to your car. Time is running out!” As Elena pressured the Russian, she saw Ethan tense. She had heard it too. Subtle footsteps were outside the window.
The next moment, everything seemed to happen simultaneously.
The glass windows by the desk shattered loudly while the evening’s chilly breeze permeated the room through the broken windows, and the old man’s body jerked forcibly backwards in the plush executive chair. Ethan grabbed Elena’s hand and pulled her towards the door. “Time to go!” he yelled.
As Elena glanced back, bullets ricocheted off the walls and tore apart the glass cabinets. Shiny red blood gushed out from a single bullet hole on Director Koslov’s forehead.
On their way out through the hallway, Elena spotted a nook containing multiple car keys, and her eyes lighted up at the sight of a familiar insignia — a shiny leather fob embossed with a distinctive golden bull emblem. She quickly snatched the keys and led Ethan to the garage, following her eidetic memorization of the stately mansion’s floor plans, which she had studied earlier. As they passed by yet another glass cabinet, Elena did a double-take, stopped in her tracks, tossed the keys to Ethan, and flung open the cabinet doors, grabbing two bulky black objects — an MP5K and G36.
“Russians. Trust them to always carry around some sort of heavy guns. Koslov sure liked his H&K,” Elena muttered and smiled wryly.
The gunshot noises subsided as they closed the heavy door that led to the 8-car garage. Motion sensor lights flickered on as the couple made their way down the stairs. “Holy son of a nutcracker,” Elena breathed as her eyes took in the sight of a Ferrari Enzo, Koenigsegg CCX, SLS AMG, and several models of BMWs and Audis.
“Elena, not now!” Ethan couldn’t help but grin as he punched the garage wall console and herded her towards the only white car in the room — the Lamborghini Gallardo Superleggera.
“No time to search here. I hope they taught you how to drive well in SAS training!” Elena said as she flung herself into the passenger seat and pulled out a SIG-Sauer P228 that was strapped to her belt.
“We don’t learn anything in the SAS,” Ethan quipped, settling himself behind the wheel. “Just kidding. Now put your sharpshooter skills to good use and cover us!”
As the roar of the 5.0-litre V10 filled the garage, the oak door leading back to the house exploded, and men bearing AK-47s and wearing black cloths that obscured their faces flooded into the garage. Shots rang out and the passenger window shattered, causing Elena to yell out obscenities. “Ethan! Drive!” Ethan stepped on the gas and floored it out of the garage as Elena gritted her teeth and returned fire in rapid succession with the MP5K.
500 feet from the mansion, Elena and Ethan felt the rumblings of a bomb, as the estate was demolished into rubble and smoke began to rise up into the night sky.
“We need to ditch the Lambo. The noise attracts too much attention,” Elena said as they pulled up to the black Audi Q7 they had left hidden behind some overgrown bushes. “Shit…those bastards killed the Audi tires! It was a relatively new car too!” she fumed.
“No matter. Check if they took the ammo from the trunk. We need the Lambo anyways,” Ethan replied, keeping his eyes glued to the rear-view mirrors. “The chip has to be somewhere in here. You should probably destroy the Audi. I have a contact who can get us a new car. We don’t want the local police on our asses.”
While Ethan kept a lookout, Elena opened the Audi trunk, grabbed the two black cases — both of which contained with pistols, rifles, and ammunition — and transferred them to the white car. Before getting back into the coupe, she strapped a block of C-4 underneath the Audi, and as the pair drove off, she triggered the detonator.
Back at what was left of the Koslov mansion, Sergei Levin rubbed his temples and placed a call, dreading the anger of the boss at the failure of Levin’s team.
“Status.” Anton Rykov’s voice crackled through the earpiece.
“Koslov has been eliminated.”
“Good. And the chip?”
“Niet. A man and a woman were here. They took the Superleggera.”
There was silence as Rykov digested the news. Then — “Find out who they are. Track them down. Kill them if necessary. That chip is mine! If you don’t obtain it, you can say hello to your cousin Viktor. Do you copy?”
Levin exhaled heavily, blood pounding in his ears. “Copy.”
The line went dead.
At the safe-house on the outskirts of Los Angeles, Elena enlisted the help of her mechanic friend, who assisted in taking apart the Superleggera. A secret compartment revealed itself as the mechanic disconnected the dashboard.
Elena’s heart sank as Ethan voiced her thoughts. “Fucking bollocks.”
There was no computer chip. There was only a small scrap of paper, with five words hurriedly penciled in.
Casa del Sol. Segovia, Spain.
Last night, I dreamt I was back in my high school calculus class, where I was handed back a chapter test with a big fat F marked on top.
“You really should think about dropping this class. It’s really detrimental to your college admissions,” my teacher glowered at me. I assured her I had no interest in pursuing math in the future, and therefore, did not see it necessary to continue taking her class, as I had fulfilled my math requirements for high school graduation anyways.
My teacher then proceeded to hand me all of my old calculus tests, all of which were marked by a red F. Pretty soon, my desk was hidden beneath the pile of sad, sad papers.
“You’re holding the entire class back. Drop the class now,” she said, and then she turned into Mickey Mouse.
“Big deal,” I replied, hiding the fact that I was experiencing heart arrhythmia again. Math has always done that to me. It had and still has been ruining my health.
As I slowly gained consciousness out of the cursed dreamland, I realized the sad truth that I still was not yet free from math hell. Two classes down, one more to go. I wish someone back in high school had warned me of the terrible reality that I still had to take math in college. At least I could have mentally prepared myself, instead of breaking out in icy cold sweat on the first day of college when I met with my academics counselor who informed me of the devastating truth.
Why is math a necessary subject anyways? All you really need to know is how to do simple addition. Maybe even some subtraction. And perhaps some percentage calculating too, just so you know the prices during sales shopping. And besides, all phones nowadays come with brilliant calculators (even tip calculators!), rendering mental math, and any sort of advanced mathematics, completely useless and unnecessary. I mean, let’s be honest here. Math, really? So irrelevant. There’s a reason why calculators and engineer/science/economics genius friends exist. Why must people insist on countering the balance of nature?
And what’s up with learning about parabolas and limits? The only thing I came away with was that you can draw pretty shapes on graphing calculators. One time, I drew a flower during a test, and became so engrossed with perfecting it that I forgot to finish the last two problems on the exam. Another time, I ended up building a house underneath the graph line while finding the limit. And yet another time, I gave up on a quiz and sat there fuming how math classes are such a complete and total waste of time for people like me, people who function beautifully without any sort of mathematical skills.
It’s so dumb. Instead of forcing us to sit trapped in a classroom, with a bunch of other morons, and try to guess what the little curly x is, those who invented the education system should scrap advanced mathematics and input classes on life and how to be successful — Reading & Grammar, How Not to Offend People 101, What Not to Wear 1A, Job Training of Your Choice 132A. This would definitely save people like me from years of feeling stupid. There are so many dummkopfs in the world who are oblivious to the most obvious common-sense knowledge that it makes me want to hurl something at their heads. But no, instead of educating these people on the basics of life and manners, the higher-beings shove useless math concepts down our throats.
Besides, what’s the point of finding out what x is, if x is just a different value every time? Who has time for this exhausting sort of rubbish?
I’m showing my sister my various posts on this blog. Some, I look back with grimace, wondering what on earth I could have been thinking to be writing such rubbish, and others, I reflect with wonder, amazed at my own ingenuity.
“Why don’t you just write a book. Title it, ‘My Awkward Life.’” She really doesn’t give a crap about this. I can tell. Just look at her… she’s not even making the effort to pay attention to what I’m showing her.
I even dedicated so many of my posts to her too. Guess that went unappreciated.
But huh. Awkward. At least my life isn’t as boring as I thought it was.
I’m twirling my hairband around my fingers as I blow my hair out of my face in boredom. I look at the clock. 6:25PM. Wait a minute….
“Don’t you have piano lessons today?” I ask my sister, who’s sitting next to me playing Neopets.
She stares at me for three seconds, and I stifle a laugh as I see a transition occur with her face. Her expression goes from mild confusion to a state of shock.
“Oh no!” she cries as she bolts up from her chair and runs out of the room.
“What time were you supposed to be there?” I call out after her, guffawing like a hyena.
“6:15!” she wails.
My mom walks in and overhears part of our conversation and immediately catches on. She gives a startled yelp as she runs to look at the clock (as if she didn’t believe my time-reading), and there’s a brief flutter of confusion as she and my sister discuss what to do. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here, being the unhelpful girl that I am, watching in amusement. Almost as if this was a comedy show on television. All I’m missing is some popcorn. Or a TV dinner tray.
Sadly, this has got to be the most interesting thing that has happened to me all day.
After an evening full of ridiculous laughter (so much that my cheeks hurt and that I’m pretty sure I burned off all those calories from the honey brick toast dessert) with good food and good company, I was at Tiffany’s house when I received a text from my housemate a little after midnight that construction was going on in my apartment complex parking lot and that I’d have to park at the adjacent church rear lot. It didn’t help that Tiffany and I had just read about 1988 Junko Furuta’s gruesome torture and murder story (WARNING: don’t read about it if you have a queasy stomach) and were talking about serial killers.
“Fuck. The church parking lot is so far away from my apartment. The lots don’t even connect. I’ll have to walk through the church lot, walk by the main street, then walk through the complex. It’s like almost a mile of walking. By myself. This late at night.” To be honest, I was more averse to the walk due to sheer laziness rather than regard for safety.
“Take this,” Tiffany said, handing me a metal rod, about 2ft long. “Just in case of anything. Plus, you’ll feel so much safer with it. Trust.”
We ended up talking for an additional hour and a half.
Finally, around 2AM, I headed home. I parked in the church lot and surveyed the area. The parking lot is separated from the apartment complex by a row of bushes and a cement wall. I figured that if I could bypass the bushes and scale the wall, I could leap over to the other side without having to walk long distance carrying a metal rod. Call it a shortcut, if you like. Besides, it was late and dark, and the chances of anyone seeing me would be slim, despite how shady it would look.
I walked the length of the parking lot, determining where the the wall was the lowest. I finally located it — about a 4ft height, and noticed that there was a 1.5ft clearing underneath the bushes. “Screw it,” I told myself, stuffed my phone, wallet, and keys into my denim shorts pocket, clutched the metal rod, and ducked underneath the bushes, hoping for no cobwebs and flesh-eating bugs and ignoring the twigs and leaves grazing my hair.
I emerged on the other side of the bushes and found myself facing the cement wall. It was too high for me to push myself up using my arm muscles (not that I have any), so I did the next best thing. I swung one leg high up, hooked it over the wall, and hoisted myself, grimacing in pain as I felt the rough cement surface scrape against my thigh (damn those denim shorts), and ending up in sitting position facing the apartment complex, surveying the area in front of me.
To my horror, I realized the drop down was greater than I had anticipated. From the church side, the wall is only about 4ft. But from the complex side, the length from the top of the wall (where I was perching) to the ground is a little more than 6 ft.
“No sacrifice, no victory,” I told myself, echoing my tattoo. I knew if I landed off balance, I’d end up with a painfully rolled ankle and perhaps injured knees, but what the hell. Where’s the fun in life if you never take risks? I jumped and stuck the landing, still tightly clutching the metal rod in one hand. Then I ran, getting slightly lost a couple times before I finally arrived safely at my doorstep.
As my tweet last night said, “Epic night. With an epic story. And an epic skin injury.”
You just had to be there. But it certainly makes for a great story.
And then, this morning, I noticed that the construction team had finished setting the new asphalt in the complex parking lot, and I came up with the notion of etching my initials into the wet asphalt. My other housemate found a strong stick, and I took up lookout duty while she scratched in her initials onto the ground, and she then did the same for me. Once we were done, we ran home like delinquent teenagers up to no good.
Our names are forever in the ground…. until the complex re-asphalts again, that is.
I’m sad to say my penmanship isn’t very good when I’m writing on the ground with a stick.
Oh, and I just have to add one more thing — it’s beyond awesome knowing that you have friends who care for your safety. Thank you, Tiffany!
Hi, my name is Josephine. I’m 20. And I’m experiencing a mid-life crisis. Sort of.
I’ve always thought I’d become this hot-shot lawyer who has an amazing and impressive win-lose ratio. I always thought I’d specialize in criminal law in the Los Angeles area. I always thought I’d be so good that the local police force and even the FBI would recognize me, and I’d have these detectives, news reporters, and investigative journalists as my friends. I was pretty much set on pursuing a career in law and aiming for NYU Law.
But then, that stupid little voice in the back of my head started talking and giving me doubts.
I don’t know if pursuing law is really my thing. I can’t exactly see myself standing in the courtroom shooting questions at the quivering person in the witness stand, thinking about mens rea and distinguishing mala in se from mala prohibita. The only things I CAN see clearly are my Michael Kors pencil skirt, Armani jacket, Ferragamo pumps, and my Audi. I don’t think law professors and admission counselors would praise that.
Thanks to the pestering voice, I’m now wondering if I should nix the law school idea completely and shoot for a career with Homeland Security or the Defense Intelligence Agency. The NSA wouldn’t be a bad choice, either. After all, I’m already solving cryptograms for fun. Plus, the concept of counterintelligence appeals much more to me than does practicing law, anyhow. But, as always, life isn’t that easy. I’m also considering going into the entertainment business, perhaps working at a prestigious PR firm, where someone wearing Givenchy and Versace and Escada wouldn’t cause anyone to bat an eye. Graduate school is still a must, of course. I’d feel compelled to jump off a cliff if I were to consider otherwise.
It all traces back to this. You think you have your life figured out, but then the voice in your head comes along and ruins everything.
Sappy sappy sappy.
That’s what I would usually say if I heard someone saying something along the lines of that. Or if I was scrolling through my dashboard and saw some gag-inducing, eyeball-rolling hopelessly romantic post.
But it’s different with this one. “I was having a crappy day, but then you said hi.” It’s different because I experienced this first-hand one morning last year.
Long story short, I was having a crappy day, because having math first thing in the morning ALWAYS kills the day. Even wearing my favorite boots didn’t help. In a bad attempt to cheer myself up, and with some time to kill, I went by the vendor fair, hoping for some lucky retail therapy. But, as I should have expected, the clothes were a disgrace, the bracelets were hideous, the shoes lacked my size, and the weather was just plain dismal. It was as if the world was telling me that the day was better spent indoors with a movie and hot soup. But then, like in the movies, you called out my name, I turned around, and I saw you through the crowd. You were smiling, and I felt myself breaking into a smile too.
And we rushed at each other and enveloped each other in a tight embrace. Yeah right. Get your head out of your ass. Didn’t I just imply I’m not that kind of fantasizing person?
No, the rushing and tight embrace thing didn’t happen. What did happen was, after the initial name-call and smile and hi, there was the typical brief friendly hug, but the thirty second conversation that followed completely turned my day around.
Of course, you had to rush off to class, and I had to catch the bus, where I got stuck sitting next to the world’s second most annoying person. But that’s another story.
See, it’s intriguing how every little decision you make can change something. If I had purposely skipped class, if I had not swung by the vendor fair, if I had worn a thick scarf to cover half of my face, if I had not worn my favorite boots, if I had not stopped by the plushie stand, you probably wouldn’t have seen me, you probably wouldn’t have said hi, and my day would have continued to be crappy. Being at the right place at the right time is just like magic.
I am nursing my head with a Cold Comfort cold-pack.
According to its instructions, direct application of the cold pack helps relieve pain. It certainly is helping, with the added plus that it helps me cool down from the hot weather, but I’m having some difficulty balancing the pack on my head as I’m typing this. And I’m pretty sure it’s giving me hat hair. Or, in this case, cold pack hair. But I can live with that. Cold pack hair sure beats having an egg-sized bump on my head.
Just to prove I don’t have retrograde amnesia, I’ll recount what had happened prior to my balancing the cold pack. I was about to enter the garage from the sidedoor, but then I bent down last-minute to pet my dog. The door was already open a smidge, but I must have forgotten about the existence of the doorknob, because I stood up suddenly, shooting up about 80 miles an hour, and my scalp bashed right into the doorknob.
I could have sworn I heard a crack. But then again, it could have been my imagination, because one can’t exactly hear a lot of detailed sounds when one is busy swearing at the top of the lungs.
And now, I’m left with a searing head injury (although, I must say that the cold pack is working brilliantly) and a bruised dignity, mainly because I’m pretty sure I had (accidentally) negatively influenced some neighborhood kids by teaching them swear words. I blame this on the fact that today’s Sunday. Sunday is never fun.
Bugs are attracted to light.
Everyone knows that. It’s a universal concept. But my dad chooses to ignore it.
He complained that it was too warm in the house, and as it’s ridiculous to install air-conditioning when you live so close to the beach, his only option to cool off was to open the window. Wide.
And as it’s pitch dark outside, little wild bugs are naturally gravitating towards the house and through the open window, where they like to slowly zoom by, one by one, below the ceiling light….above my head. It’s almost as if they’re window-shopping, the way they’re lazily floating around. Back and forth. I’m not talking about big ugly moths or flies or anything grotesque like that. These are tiny little things (are they fruit flies? Only an entomologist would know, and I sure as hell am not one).
And lucky me, I’m busy alternating between holding my breath and breathing in and out as shallowly as I can, in dire fear that I might accidentally inhale one of those little winged insects, send it spiraling towards my brain, and lodging it lethally somewhere into the frontal lobe of my brain.
Either way, I just might die. Lack of oxygen versus a bug making contact with my brain; it’s a 50/50 shot.
Perhaps I should move to a different room. Or lock myself in the bathroom with the lights turned off.
Ever since I was old enough to start school and was forced into participating in menial group projects, I was always the one carrying the team. I had - and still have, I suppose - the reputation of being a reliable perfectionist, so everyone assumed I would work some magic while they enjoy the luxury of sitting back and relaxing, and the end result would be magnificent. Very rarely would I see a team member be proactive. Sure, they would help out, but only when I asked. No one would actively come up and ask what they can do, or assertively volunteer, for that matter. And honestly, it becomes exhausting when you have to continuously pester after people just to ask for assistance, on a project that they’re involved in.
Picture it this way: You enlist a donkey to help pull a wagon of heavy equipment to build a time-machine, because, well, the wagon’s simply too heavy for you to manage by yourself. However, every five minutes, you’re forced to stop, go behind the donkey, and push on its ass. Then you have to go back to the front and drag the donkey along. Occasionally, you even have to dig out the leather and whack the ass a couple of times. In the end, is it really worth enlisting the help of another who will just weigh you down in actuality?
Even when you form an ad hoc group, with a designated leader, it doesn’t go as planned. You’d think that by placing a sub in charge, you won’t have to worry about certain things. But nope, even with an ad hoc group, with the designated leader, you’re still essentially doing everything by yourself. The designated leader is only there by name. What gives?
Sure, I may be a cantankerous bitch who can throw out vituperative warnings and curses, but I’m one that can get things done. And people who know me understand that - hence, the long history of people pushing all the responsibility towards me.
Is the true definition of teamwork that arcane? Or is the act of social loafing just completely taking over the world? I grew up thinking that putting in your best effort at every task and being proactive was a rudimentary part of human nature. Now, I’m not so convinced.
Who knew group work could be such a deleterious task? All through summer break, I’ve had to continuously deal with this. We are now progressing into the last few weeks of summer vacation, and I’m going to take full advantage of this time to properly enjoy the time. Time to sit back and see how things unfold without being the person who’s used to obsessing over stressful details and used to being in control. This means easing off checking my emails and disconnecting Facebook from my phone. Because god knows stressing year-round is no good for the health. And if things fall apart from my inactivity…well, I’ll jump that hurdle when I come to it.
Funny thing is, some people seem to think “trashy” and “classy” go together. Or they just have the two definitions skewed. Sometimes, I feel myself itching to flat out throw the truth at them, but where’s the fun in that? It’s more amusing to watch them strut through the halls and sidewalks, thinking they’re the crown jewel, while I’m busy hoping that they’ll trip on a crack on the ground and fall flat on their faces.
Fall flat on their faces…. literally and metaphorically! Get it?
Regardless of my ill-attempt at humor that no one understands (hey, people rarely catch my puns, and it’s no fun to have to explain them), I really wonder when these tweebs will understand that being the biggest (and whiniest) flirt in the world does not equate to classiness, even if they’re strutting around like a peacock in sky high heels. And don’t even get me started on those teeny tiny shorts and tight barely-there miniskirts. I always thought it was standard procedure to hide one’s vagina in public, but I suppose some people have no shame. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised.
And for the sake of everything that’s good, stop investing in flip flops. Flip flops will never be stylish. Those things are for the beach, or dorm bathrooms, or backyards, but never for the public (except for the beach).
Oh, and bitch, calling others a “bitch” for daring to disagree with you is slightly moronic. Actually, I take it back. It’s very moronic. It definitely would never fall under the category of “classy,” “stylish,” or “sophisticated.” It’s just plain nasty and trashy and, like I said, moronic. There are so many wonderful (and cleaner) vocabularies in the world that it’s just a shame if you don’t utilize them. And if you really HONESTLY can’t think of anything better to use than “bitch,” I’m afraid it’s time for you to reacquaint yourself with the dictionary. And thesaurus. Here’s a gift for you: www.barnesandnoble.com. Another option you can consider is enrolling in a speech and debate class. It really pains me to see that your sole debate skill is name calling. Pathetic, really.
I could go on and on, but I feel I might be hurting feelings by being so diabolical. When I was writing this, I wasn’t thinking of anyone in particular. But if you found yourself steadily boiling with anger as you were reading (before getting to this part), you should probably reconsider your values. Or your life in general.
Have a nice day! Keep on classyin’ it up!
You don’t deserve to drive nice cars. Because you people hold attributes that resemble those of a primitive race, you deserve to drive ugly, rattling metal boxes. Besides, your driving behavior makes it look as if you’re just begging on your knees to have another car crash full on into you. Maybe you think it makes you look badass? Let me break it to you, honey. It actually makes you look like you’re a mentally ill person that the doctor accidentally released from the asylum. Unless that equates to awesomeness in your poor, deranged world, I don’t think that’s the look you’re aiming for. You may be laughing now when you’re cutting people off left and right, almost running the old lady in the corner over, and going 50 in a 35 zone with that loud, obnoxious exhaust of yours that you’ve added on to your Honda, but you’ll be the brunt of the jokes when you’re rewarded with a ticket, slapped with the shame of hitting a body, or landed in the hospital when your car gets totaled. But hey, maybe it’s just me who’s not turned on by your reckless and supercilious driving. Who knows, right? It’s a crazy world, anyhow.
What was that? Oh, yes, I am aware that I already tweeted about this. But I figure you love and crave audience attention, so I’m dedicating a tumblr text post to you too.
Have a great day!