nothing compares to kraft dinner with hot sauce and ranch dressing in front of a tv that blurs the red backgrounds with faces so i get convinced that my very hot sauce from jamaica is spiked with acid and everything i am experiencing is any where close to that elusive realm called reality

nothing beats the million dollars of fines that i have accumulated with blockbuster and videotron from shitty movies i shouldn't have watched anyway but did out of my intense hatred for will smith will ferrell will whoever and all the other overpaid twits who headline all the movies

nothing rivals a hormonally fucked up me who somehow managed to fuck up her cycle to the point where everything hurt and i was convinced i was pregnant despite the last pregnancy scare which was actually just a major kidney infection from hell that sparked the need to get on the pill which was the precise reason of this month's fury and never ever again am i going to alter hormones again because the beast within should only be expressed in a character on stage and not all the fucking time for no justifiable reason

nothing is more humiliating than accepting the speckles of old crusty food that live permanently on my kitchen tiles that came from tenants of yore who loved belinda stronach and anarchy symbols and these tenants are the sole reason for my recent purchase of heavy duty cleaning supplies that are so noxious they verge on being acid

and that is my month to date

how is yours so far?