My father is watching Ally Mcbeal not twenty feet away from me. When she is not bemoaning her pitiful existance, she delights with various song and dance debacles. Fortunately I do not so much witness these spontaneous episodes of art as I experience them aurally. Still this is enough to make one want to kill herself.
When I am not wanting to end my own life Monday nights at 9:00 pm pacific standard time, I am wanting to bludgeon customers to death. Lately I've had fantasies of literally sitting atop their chests, pinning them down with my knees, and beating them to a fucking bloody pulp with a broken bottle of Gordon's Vodka and a bag of ice.