warnings

Yeah, sorry for the lack of entries recently. Sort've been preoccupied with other things, along with updating my counterpart diary.

Speaking of my alternate diary, I think I'm finally going to link to it now -- 'i want the life you think i have.' If the primary reason you read this diary is related to any sort of humor purposes whatsoever, following the link is discouraged. I also offer little background information, so prepare to be confused off your ass.

But anyway, on with the entry.

Every day after school, for the most part, my mom picks me up and we drive out to Starbucks or some other such coffee establishment. And, even though my mom was twenty minutes late in arriving at the school today, the tradition continued.

As my mom and I were standing around patiently waiting for our drinks to be spawned, this woman bustles in with her daughter, who was probably no more than five years old (the daughter, not the mother, folks). Immediately I noticed that the mother happened to be extremely selfish and self-centered -- just by the way she carried herself and whatnot, you know the drill. It was also obvious that she cared little for her daughter, because she was walking far too quickly for a kid to keep up with her. She snatched her daughter up from the floor and set her down on a table, as in, where people eat, and attempted to tie her shoes as her daughter whined in pain. I concluded the daughter's name was Lily, considering the mother took it upon herself to snap at her whenever the opportunity arose.

The mother, exhibiting great responsibility, wandered off and surveyed the various mugs and such lining the shelves surrounding the store, leaving her daughter to meander elsewhere.

Her daughter stumbled past me, and I noticed that her jacket was lined with an animal-printed, furry material.

I see how it is. The mom had kids because she became bored with dolls.

Lily then veered off to the side where some boxes were stacked. She began yanking at the handles on the boxes, then picked one up.

'No, you shouldn't do that,' I murmured, taking the box from her and placing it back on the pile. I made a point not to treat her like a child, since I'm sure she gets enough of that from her mother.

Lily stood still and stared at me blankly, then eventually placed her hand upon the box again, as if she was preparing to take it back. After a minute or two, she did, and her mother finally remembered that she had a kid with her and screamed, 'Lily! Put that back!' She then thanked me when I again took the box away and set it back on the pile.

Damn, woman, children aren't like your part-time job at the local strip joint. Her daughter was so starved for attention that she was willing to do negative things and thus receive negative attention.

My conclusion? If a high school student (a freshman, no less) can glance at you and instantly know that your maturity level is equal to or lower than that of a teenage girl's, don't have a damn kid. There are enough bad parents in society. No, really. You don't need to make any contributions. Pat's (my koishii, my boyfriend, mine, the entire box of crackers) parents have already made their way onto my hit list -- don't join my wrathful party of death.

Except Pat's parents effortlessly made it to the top of the list of those who need to be heartlessly slaughtered. If they're out to make someone miserable, they might as well repeatedly punt me in the stomach instead. That'd leave me with at least some remaining sanity; listening to them belittle and outrageously punish Pat and then broadcast what wonderful parents they are makes me so unbelievably angry, I couldn't even begin to describe it. It's like finding out your favorite television show has been canceled.

And then having your television explode, emitting sparks and setting you into a blazing inferno, thus causing your entire house to be gutted by the flames and slowly crumble around you as your skin melts into the fucking carpet! And as you burn, screaming until your throat is bloody and raw, the you hear the merry and joyous jingle associated with the ice cream man as he intentionally drives past your house without calling 911, and all you want to do is tear your Blue Bunny Ice Cream from the chilly depths of your freezer and use it to pound the ice cream man's head into a bleeding nub as he screams like a pansy for forgiveness and mercy! But you can't, because you happen to be stuck at the moment -- stuck in your permanent grave as a puddle on the floor.

Needless to say, Pat's parents piss me off beyond any sort of comprehensible explanation.

Promise me, those of you who read my diary -- if you ever have children, please, please be humane so that when your children get married, their spouse does not want to carve your intestinal system from your chilly (and preferrably dead) body! If you decide to punish your child, give it some sort of purpose and make it short, so your child doesn't mope around in his or her room for several weeks conspiring ways to kill you!

In all seriousness, really. Don't cause someone the same pain and anguish that both Pat and I have had to suffer. Be a good parent, boys and girls, or someday, when you least expect it, someone you assume to be a UPS employee will turn out to be me, and you'll soon find your brain splattered against the opposite wall.