My birthday party is fuh-king ruined. Period. UGH! What don’t you understand about that? I wish I had never been born. I wish I had been aborted. I wish “Karen” , if that’s even her real name, would have just pooped me out of her sweaty vag right down the toilet and flushed me into oblivion. Into that sarlacc pit of nothingness. That’s how FUCKED my birthday is. period.
You know, you only turn 16 once and you want it to be special. It’s supposed to be the one day in your whole life where everything goes perfect. Everybody is supposed to make you the center of attention. Everybody is supposed to buy you presents. You’re supposed to get a Range Rover and MTV is supposed to video tape you doing doughnuts in the parking lot, while you blast Black Eyed Peas so loud that cum balls squirt out your nose hole. That’s how loud the Black Eyed Peas are supposed to be, loud enough to defy rational anatomical functions. Shooting jizz rockets out your nostril? Shit’s straight retarded, Black Eyed Peas style. That’s what sweet 16 is supposed to be about. It’s supposed to be the first day of the rest of your life. It’s the moment when a girl blossoms into womanhood and lets the cutest boy in school (Gunter Slugsworth) put his thumb in her plum pudding.
The only thing I REALLY needed for my super sweet 16 was an iron-casted replica of Draco Malfoy’s cock-muscle. I wanted to see the look on Liz’s face when she came over for Harry-themed Trivial Pursuit night and I had that thing sitting on my mantle, glistening in the J.K. Rowling approved candlelight, staring her right in her stupid puffy-nippled tits. She thought she was soooo bitchin’ when she brought over the HP collection on Blu-Ray, even though the only reason her Dad bought that for her was because he was cheating on her Mom with Coach Terri, the assistant women’s softball coach, and felt like a total dickwad after she drowned herself in the baby pool in their front lawn on Valentine’s Day. I mean don’t me wrong or whatever, I like Harry and all but I would rather have my mom not be dead. Plus that baby pool is practically ruined now. UGH!
All I wanted was a Twilight themed blood fountain but noooo. Gurgling and spewing that sweet red sauce for everybody’s sipping pleasure. Daddy said he couldn’t get the hospital to agree to shipping 7 gallons of human blood to our house. Total fucking bullshit! Last time I checked, the hospital doesn’t have a monopoly on blood. And I’m not picky, I had Dad even go down to the vet and see if we could just drain our own blood from the pile of dogs that they had put down that day, but the people at the vet are homo’s and said they would “call the cops” if he didn’t “leave the premises.”
And then Tiff shows up with her new haircut with cropped bangs. She god damn knows cropped bangs are my thing! I pioneered cropped bangs in September. I Thomas Edison’ed that shit. I Steve Jobs’ed cropped bangs back when she still had those silly fucking leg braces. She fucking Billy-boy Gates’ed that shit like a poseur supreme. It’s like she is deliberately trying to sabotage my look. She’s going to ruin it because cropped bangs don’t look good on fat girls who can’t walk straight.
And I specifically asked for a sushi bar with a real Chinese person, so I could look sophisticated and Asiatic. But noooo, apparently the Japs are better at making sushi than the Chinese. If I wanted my super sweet 16 to turn into Pearl Harbor, I would’ve invited mole-faced Cuba Gooding III and told him to bring his dad.
Plus, this queso dip tastes like the back of Rosie O’Donnell’s knees.
Worst. Birthday. Ever.