So I'm having a bad day, again. I think it has something to do with the weather/my ugly outfit/my $20 checking account balance even though I got $175 at the beginning of this week. (Granted, 80% of that went towards Christmas presents, but still.) So, because I'm a masochist who likes to indulge in my bad moods to the furthest extent possible, I asked the magic eight ball on the front desk at my office this fateful question:
Am I ugly?
No doubt about it.
Well, you know what? Fuck you, "magic" eight ball. Who are you to call me ugly? You just sit on the desk all plastic and round and when people shake you and ask personal questions that greatly affect their self-worth, you give them answers that drive them further to the brink of suicide. FUCK. YOU. Because of you I'll probably develop anorexia and start using bronzer. If I'm unrecongizable due to the amount of Bare Minerals I have caked on my face by next Wednesday, everyone can blame you, Mr. Eight Ball. You bastard.