Suicide Pact #3

I have entered in a third suicide pact with Coyote. Sadly, suicide pacts are the only things that seem to motivate me past my inherent laziness and lack of confidence.

It's a deadly combination.

I must produce a second draft of one of my short stories by May 1. Unfortunately, I have only one first draft, so that's all I can work with. I've been hiding from finishing this thing for nearly a year now. Shit.

I also must produce a new first draft by June 1. That'll be slightly easier, considering it doesn't have to be any good.

Damn it all. Why do I do this to myself?

On the plus side, I get to read some new stuff by Coyote.

Stuff, Things, and Shit (Sorry, no Junk)

1. I got hung out to dry. I've gotten screwed at work before, but never this overtly. Angry Taco is Angry.
2. Piece of shit I used to be good friends with hurt awesome person I really fucking love's feelings. Angry Taco is Seeing Red.
   
3. I had to work late today because of the fuck up that I wasn't responsible for, and that the one responsible won't acknowledge. Angry Taco is Pissed.
4. This jackass in California decided to dick me over and make all kinds of noise about how important it was for him to get my fix as soon as humanly possible without actually answering my question about whether he had to have it tonight (accepting the fact that I'd be harder to reach outside business hours) or if he could wait until tomorrow. I didn't let him have it, but once I asked him point blank and couldn't get a straight fucking answer, I went home and let him stew for the hour and a half it takes for me to drive home, have dinner, etc. He's much more cooperative now. But he's still a fucknut. Angry Taco is Ready to Snap.
5. Wifezilla takes kidzookie out to the mall for Mommy & Son's Night Out (TM). I asked her to pick me up a technical book I really need, since there's a Barnes & Noble in the mall. She comes home and hands me the bag, which contains the book I needed... plus the only Christopher Moore book I don't yet own. I look up and she smiles and says I seemed to be having a bad day, so she and my son got me a present. Angry Taco is... Less Angry.
   

I renounce my humanity.

I don't want to be associated with you fuckers any more.

I'm flipping through the channels tonight, and I see some lady missing and presumed dead, body parts found on the side of some highway, and a 3 month old infant found dead and probably tossed out of a car.

What the fuck, people?

I'm one of the most disagreeable sons of bitches you're likely to find anywhere. I don't like people at all. And I still can't imagine doing any of this shit.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

I don't want you fuckers messing up my rep anymore. I quit.

Their brains are like little sponges.

So I very nearly taught my sweet little daughter the word fuck tonight. Fortunately, I worked harder than I should have this week and managed to turn a simple case of the creeping crud into what now feels suspiciously like bronchitis. The coughing fit that elicited the poetical utterance also rendered it unintelligible.

My daughter now yells, "Ock!" every time something annoys her.