May 18, 1986
Murderers, that's what we are. A thing that breathes lives feels just like me. gone forever. creatures, beasts, mice. cute little things. dead. I want them to live forever.
I'm not even kidding. What a fucking nerd I was. Oh well, I was only 10. I had plenty of time to learn that murder can be a good thing. After 10 years as a vegetarian, I took that first bite of Alaskan crab and I realized: it can make you feel really, really good. It didn't matter that the only reason I broke my vow of self-righteous vegetarianism was to impress a guy I wanted to fuck. Which was pretty stupid, all things considered. I mean he was going to fuck me whether I ate the crab or not. I was so stupid to think, "Maybe he'll think I'm weird if I don't eat this crab leg and then he'll decide he doesn't want to have sex with me." I mean he was dangling that crab leg in front of my face like it was his own cock. And I fell for it like a moron. Regardless,
crablegs = yum
The Deadliest Catch = Bad-ass, fearless fisherman
Wholesale slaughter = bad feelings so I don't think about where all that filet mignon comes from.
Filet mignon = Love at first bite
Ants = Die, motherfuckers, die
Liv got one of those miniature ant farms in her Easter basket from Grandmom. The directions say to start 4 little tunnels with a stick in the gel (which provides all the nutrients and water they could ever need), collect 5-10 ants, put them in the ant farm and close the lid. I thought, "Cool. I have a ton of ants in my kitchen. I don't even need to go outside for this little mother/daughter project". I reasoned that the ants in my kitchen must be some kind of super-breed. Afterall, we do live on the second floor. They've figured out that the lady who lives on the second floor doesn't sweep her floor nearly as much as the lady on the first floor, therefore: more crumbs = more food. It's worth the extra effort to get to the Jackson kitchen. Babies drop a lot of shit on the floor when they eat.
I spent a good hour Friday night trying to find the best and the brightest of this mensa of ant colonies. I sought out the wily ones, the sneaky ones, the ones that were the hardest to catch. My ant farm was going to be the one that changed the course of antkind. These ants were lucky. Afterall, next chance I get I'm going to Home Depot for some weaponry and it's going to be a bloodbath. A ruthless genocide if you will. So this little box of gel I was trying to coax them into was their safe harbor, their Noah's ark of sorts. And those little fuckers haven't shown a hint of gratitude. They haven't started a super-colony. They haven't built little gel mountains. They haven't done any of the shit the pamphlet said they would do.
Instead, the 9 lucky ants have been huddling, climbing on the underside of the lid, playing dead, and I'm pretty sure, if their hands could be seen with the naked eye, flipping me off.
"Todd - the ants aren't doing anything."
"Well they're not really ants. I mean they're not ants ants. They're kitchen ants."
"Spoiled rotten, lazy ass fucking kitchen ants."