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Die.

I don't know who reads this anymore. I look at my friends lists and it's a combination of people who haven't written in their journals in years, people who couldn't possibly care less about what I have to say, and the occasional asian girl who has never spoken to me and added me because she's a closet lesbo. Thanks sweetheart.

I'm convinced the only people who actually read this with any remote interest are various stalkers.

That's fine with me. I'm at a point where I'm sick of trying to impress you ("friend") with my hilarity filled life. My life isn't that hilarious. In fact, it blows beyond all comprehension of blowing. But that's not too entertaining is it? Darn.

You can take your goddamn political commentary, your constant blathering about whatever new fad isn't good enough for you, and your pictures of yourself in swimwear and shove it up your collective livejournal ass.

I realize that no one but me is putting pressure on me to entertain you assholes, but I still feel it. For that, I hate you. From this point on, I'm resuming recording the most mundane of events resulting from my menial job, my transmission-eating car, and whatever fucking man is rejecting me at the moment.

Good. Day.