I'm sitting at my computer.
Mocha is making me write this post.
I have nothing to say.
If you don't like it then send your hate mail to her.
I'm listening to my little brother tell my parents about a big fight some high schoolers had at his school.
It all sounds very dramatic and bloody.
My parents are concerned. I can feel it. It's hillarious.
My head is torturing me.
You're a spoilt brat.
You don't deserve half the things you have!
You don't deserve your friends.
I am a spoilt brat.
Get over it, head.
I feel better now.
I haven't cleaned my room in over sixty-five years. (Not really.)
I don't intend to.
And no, Mocha, You're not allowed to come over and do it for me. Go be freakishly organized at someone else's house.