I have one thing to say to you, you idiot.

BACK. OFF.

I don't like it that you talk to her, or write to her, or try to be funny/witty/sexy/WHATTHEFUCKELSE, she's mineminemineminemineminemineminemineminemineMINE.

*fumes*

Tweetie's got some guy hanging after her and I. DON'T. LIKE. IT. He's trying to be all funny and whatthefuckelse and is constantly writing to her and being all purrpurrlookatmelookatme and I don't like it. At all.

*snarls*

I've got my period and I'm not in a good mood so I'll keep this short. Why I'm not cutting this? Because, frankly, my dears, I don't feel like it. Skip it if you want, this will be everything you didn't want to know about me rolled into one entry.

As awritersfantasy pointed out earlier, they really should have a mood-icon for PMS-ing. There aren't really any mood-thingies that can accurately describe that feeling of utter murderous rage that will be the pre-stage for a bloodbath of war-sized proportions.

I'm fat. My panties are too small and they roll down my stomach when I sit. My boobs are too big and they don't fit in to the bra anymore. I can't get into pants that needs to be closed with a zipper anymore. I'm like a baby killer-whale. I'm ugly, I look in the mirror and I want to rip the skin off my face. I really honestly want to. I don't have a nice personality. I don't want one. I don't want to be all nice and smily and shiny and happy bouncy and what the fuck other things "normal" people are.
I guess I could buy bigger clothes or go to get my head fixed, but I'm poor. Boo-hoo, poor me. Whine whine, cry cry.

The best thing of all? I could write this in Swedish and it wouldn't be so easy to read for everyone. I could post it in a private entry and no one could ever read it. I could keep from posting it at all. But guess what? I'm a big drama-queen, but I don't want pats on the head. Pats on the head when I'm in this stage just makes me loathe myself even more.

What brought this on? The fact that I thought that I'd get chocolate for a small Christmas present. It wasn't for me and I got cranky. Then the batteries in my CD-player were out like a fucking light and when I waited for the tram there was some disgusting guy staring at me.

There's no way to accurately describe PMS.

I'm going to eat bread with salmon and some salad and then I'm going to cuddle Tweetie till we go to sleep.

I can't believe how fast my faith in humanity is sinking. Every day something happens that makes me hate humans even more, if it's actually possible. It doesn't have to be anything big, it can be just something small, almost insignificant, and it just makes me want to go on a hunt. I don't like feeling like this, but I guess since I had the unfortunate luck of being born without the bimbo-gene, I guess I've got to take it.
So...
Dear old couple on the tram to work:
Yes, I dress in black. It's not a trick of the light. Yes, that it a long black winter-coat (Tweetie's) and a black summer-hat ('cause my hat rocks!). Yes, I am wearing both together. Yes, that is, in fact, music you hear coming from my CD-player. Guess what? I'm now going to stalk your grandchildren and end up sodomizing their family-dog, because that's what people who look like me do, right? Uh-huh, thought so.

Dear ugly bimbo on the tram out to work:
Just... Fuck off.

Dear disgusting cunts on the tram on the way back from work:
You're NOT cool. Sitting there and howling is so out, didn't you get the fucking memo? All it does is making me want to go over there and rip you to pieces. You have no clue how close I was to do that. I will pray to whatever higher power that listens that you'll live a long, miserable life and that you'll spend most of it cleaning after other people.

There are no words to say how much I loathe humanity right now. I honestly can understand why some people go berserk.

On the plus-side though... You who work on the first floor in the building where I clean: you rock. Thank you so much for treating me like a human being and not like a part of the furniture or like I'm invisible. You all deserve flowers for being there.

Tweetie's home now. I demand food from Cindy's and lots of cuddling.

Over and out.

Workrelated bitchiness among other things ahead. I'm not cutting this, no likey, no ready? Verstanden?

Sooo... Today we have a thing or two to deal with in Mini's LJ. Yup. Let's start, shall we?

This week has been - since Sunday - for lack of better word... Weird.

Sunday was nice, we went to pick up the laundry at Tweetie's mom. She let us wash there on Saturday because she's great and scary and we don't say no to washing. Tweetie's mom and her husband, Tweetie's stepfather, are usually bickering like crazy. This is damn fun to watch, usually up to the point when they try to pull us in. That's when we run for cover. ;p
Anyhoo, this time there was bickering in Italian (the man of the house is Italian) and Mini picked up a few new words from this that she will proudly be presenting to her faithful readers.

Italian 101 with Mini:
che cazo voi - what the cock do you want?
che cazo mi fredo (not entirely sure about the "mi fredo"-part) - leave me the cock/fuck alone. Or something like that.

I'm looking forward to using these next time I've got some stupid guy trying to pick me up. Together with giving them the finger it should work just fine to keep them away. No, I really don't hate men, I promise, I'm just tired of the fact that there's always some guy who thinks - just because I look like I do - that I'd be so desperate to get some that I'd roll over at the slightest sign of interest. *rolls eyes*

So, let's fast forward to yesterday, shall we? Tweetie almost put the kitchen on fire. Almost. No, it didn't burn down, yes, I'm serious. Let's just say that the oven is out to get us. >.>

Work... Well, work's been fine all week up till today when I just wanted to scream and scream and scream. Why, do you ask? Because the stupid cunts - and I -know- who they are now - have, yet again, left water/drinks in plastic cups, standing upright in their fucking garbage cans. It happens now and then and it drives me up the fucking walls. Sometimes there's cans with Cola, and sometimes just cups with water, but what the fuck?? They are too fucking lazy to go and pour it out, but they can manage to balance the fucking things upright in the garbage so that it won't leak out?? Never mind the fact that if I don't see it in time and when I've emptied the garbage for them - stupid lazy cunts - and put the bag down on the floor there will be Cola or water or what the fuck they had to drink otherwise all over the fucking floor just cause they were too lazy to drag their stupid asses into the kitchen and empty the fucking stuff out.
Once I even found milk standing the right way in the garbage in the kitchen - half-full. The best part is that on the way from the fridge to the garbage they have to pass the sink, but they couldn't be arsed to turn the damn thing over and empty it out before throwing it away? Just what the fuck???
Let me tell you one thing - the people working there might earn 5 or 10 times as much as I do, but I don't have the slightest bit of respect for people who haven't gotten around to learn the basics in dealing with a kitchen yet. Gods, I hate them.

So, let's continue on the Avenue of Hate, shall we? Buckle up, we're in for a bumpy ride.

So, I'm on my way home, having run like a maniac for the first tram and when I change and get on the second one (because I can't be arsed to walk up the hill from the tramstop - I'm tired, cranky and sick) the first thing I see is some stupid little bimbo and her boytoy. For some reason, little Miss I-spread-my-legs-for-anyone starts looking at me, and so does Mister I'm-so-cool-'cause-I've-got-myself-a-girl-that-will-spread-her-legs-for-me (I have such faith in humanity, can you tell?). I do my usual stuff, listen to music and ignore, ignore, ignore.
Does the little miss stop staring? Nope. I know I look like hell, I've just got off work and I'm fucking sicksicksick, and she starts smooching her boytoy in all that cutesy manner that just makes me want to walk over there and strangle them both. In the reflection of the window, I can see how she's checking my reaction. Which hopefully was as disgusted as I felt. ;p
So they get out one stop before me and she turns one last time as she trods oh-so-delicately with her high heels down the steps. I made sure to keep eye-contact and roll my eyes at them. It felt so damn good.
Just because I look like hell doesn't mean that I'm jealous of some stupid cunt and her cock-on-a-leash. I've got news for you, bitch, I'm so not interested. Not in a million years. Nope, nope, nope. Nada. So run along now and spread your legs for him and all his friends and I hope you catch an STD or eight.

... Gods, that felt good to get out. There's more, but I'm too tired and too sick to bother.

If you'll excuse me I'm off to hack up a lung and pat Tweetie's hair which is really nice and soft.

Gute Nacht aus der Schweiz!