I have been crying for two days now. Today was the first day I could write about the pain you have caused me. 368 days ago I was born (don't forget Leap Day dear readers, like these assclowns forgot my birthday). And you made no mention of it. You did not give me anything for my birthday. Even the dog got a cake. What did I get? An article about some stupid party instead of my own birthday bash.
The damage has been done. No, no, no, you can not make it up to me on Valentines Day! I don't want any stupid roses or some dinner at a restaurant on amateur night. I had hoped for my birthday one of you would have brought me some sweetbreads and truffled grits from MiLa or trout meuniere. Christ, I would have been happy with a Fat Kid Special. But no I got nothing and did not like it.
What did I do to deserve this? I guess the fact that you two can't figure how to post pictures is my fault. Or the fact that Rene's rambling prose resembles a drunk third grader's is because I sometimes fail to save properly. Go ahead and blame Peter's photography, which looks like Dali imitating Picasso on acid, on my inabilities to process data.
I wish I had never been blogged.
Hate,
Blackened Out
P.S. Wanna see how easy it is to post pictures? Here is a pic I took of myself on my birthday. You like the glasses? I stole them from Kim Jong-il.
Posts
1 comment:
Dear Blackened Out, I just wanted to let you know that I remembered your birthday, and I even mentioned its approach to Peter. So he forgot even though I reminded him. Happy belated, Birthday. I'm just proud to say I was present at the dinner that started it all...
Lots of Love,
Triple B (formerly the Palm Room Hostess)
Post a Comment