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batfakforever
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Name: Running Bear
Country: United States
State: Illinois
Metro: Chicago
Birthday: 1/3/1987
Interests: Cartooning, Procrastinating, watching funny movies, old war movies, eating Chipotle, entertaining people in whatever way I can, playing computer games, and History.
Expertise: Procrastinating, comedy, writing, ideas, childish scribbles people call "cartoons," and lounging around like the lazy bastard I am.
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Art
Message: message me
Yahoo:  thpassionofthenightdog
AIM:  Codename Twinky
AIM:  Josh Jobbe
Member Since:
10/25/2004
 Lifetime
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| I'm back at Columbia, gross. At least it's home to the coolest old people in the world, old people who've done it all and think that its pure LOL.
I also had the following conversation on teh fone:
Lady: Hello, I'm with some random Breast Cancer Society, how are you today?
Me: ...Are you shitting me!?
Lady: ...Sir?
Me: Do you know who I am!?
Lady: Well, yes, I-
Me: I am the owner and sole proprietor of the world largest nipple cigarette company in the world.
Lady: A... what.
Me: That's right. Nipparettes™ Inc. sells millions of nipple cigarettes every day to upwards of a few countries throughout the world, and your organization is working around the clock to try and bring me down. Is this some kind of sick joke for you people!?
Lady: No! I'm sorry, it will never happen again! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!
Me: Good. Don't let it happen again.
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| I find it ironic that *everyone* at 7-11 has to work on Labor Day.
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| So, I have learned two (2) things.
1. Jerry is "going" into "rehab," and has pretty much been kicked the fuck out, and will be staying the fuck out.
2. Apparently, I beat the everloving shee-it out of him, and from eyewitness reports (I haven't seen him since) he looks like he got into a fight with a very angry individual who happened to be a lot bigger than he. Beer muscles don't help bruises and internal bleeding, apparently.
Basically, I feel much better now.
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| So there I was, getting ready to go to sleep, when I saw it; my bottle of vodka sitting on my desk in my room. It was half empty, when I hadn't left it that way. My conclusion? Drunken loser dad strikes again.
I found him sitting in the kitchen, on the floor.
"What's this?" I asked him, "What's what?" was his reply. "This conspicuous space between where the booze was, and where it seems to have left off."
He 'didn't know,' and advised me to go to bed. I called him a drunken loser, and did went back to my room.
I put back the vodka, shook my head in disgrace, and tried to go to sleep. A while later, I'm not sure when, he came into my room, and reached for my neck, and tried to suffocate me with the stink of alcohol breath, "How dare you come into my house with that shit? And talk to me like that?"
He kind of whispered it, maybe he expected me to let him go on a drunken tirade, teach me a lesson about respect or some twisted bullshit.
I think I dissapointed him.
I've long thought about killing him, I really have. I thought about what I would do if he ever "pulled some shit," and forced my hand; but I couldn't. However much I hate that son of a bitch, no matter what he seems to do, how low he sinks, et cetera, I couldn't even bring myself to breaking his face.
My room's a mess from where I threw him around, just trying to get him off me. Scuff marks on the floorboards, my cup of change spilled out all over. His blood's still on my hands. Goes from red to brown a lot faster than on CSI.
To make the night just perfect, he even shat himself.
I feel like I failed. Didn't kill him. Didn't FUBAR his ass up. Didn't even call the cops. I could handle him hiding down in the basement, and occasionally passing out on the stairs up to the kitchen, but I refuse to deal with this level of outright retarded faggotry. My mom also appears to be fed up.
It will be interesting to see where this path takes me.
Probably to a psychologist.
Ba-doo tsshh
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| *Hack, cough*Gaaaaaharrrhrhhrrararaarrr!!!1!
I'm so fucking sick.
My face, I can't breath out of it.
I also find myself unable to breath out of anything else, no matter how hard I try.
I blame this on you, woman. It's all your fault.
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