You know when you have a single stray hair stuck to your bare arm?

And you cannot see it or remove it yourself BUT YOU KNOW IT'S THERE. Because you can feel it. Sense it. DRIVING YOU CRAZY.

This is the level of IRKED-NESS I am currently experiencing. (I mean, the hair thing happens too. I shed.) But. Something completely unrealted, but that generates the same level of RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE.

I know a Person. She believes that she is Very Creative, and thus likes to Captialize. Random words. Like this. And use pun. Cuation. WHERE THERE SHOULD BE NO PUNCTUATION AT ALL.

She's a rebel, people.

She once even...DYED HER HAIR. It was blonde, BUT NOW IT'S BROWN. Oh. My. God. I realize it is hard to comprehend, but yes. SHE WENT THERE. The media tells you to be blonde and SHE AIN'T LISTING TO THE MAN, SISTA. I realize that NO ONE HAS DONE THIS BEFORE and that it may be TOO MUCH for you to handle because this was A STATEMENT. About herSelf. That she is very busy discovering. AND TELLING ME/YOU/LARRY KING/ THE UNIVERSE about. Then I had this fantasy that involved punching her in the teeth.

It was beautiful.

Anyway, we're writing for the same "creative" publication. There's a section where all the contributors answer a question from the editor.

This week's question: "What song lyrics describe your summer mantra?"

Her answer: "Summer days, drifting away...to oh-oh those summer nights."

Oh. My. CHEESEBURGER.

THAT WAS WHAT YOU CAME UP WITH? IN ALL YOUR DARK, ALL-BLACK-WEARING LISTENING TO THE SPICE GIRLS BECAUSE THAT MAKES YOU REEEEETRO SELF-NESS, THAT WAS WHAT YOU CAME UP WITH? FUCKING GREASE?

I'm going to stab her with a spork. Then I'm going to post a picture of it on her Xanga and call it Performan.ce aRt.

/Wave your hands in the air/If you feel fine/We're gonna take it into overtime/Welcome to the space jam