What Are You?

What are you? What the fuck kind of question is that. What are you? So my olive complexion, which is as natural as the green grass I wish would grow instead of the snow I am forced to contend with on a daily basis. Olive, not clear cut like black or white, my eyes are big and my hair is stubborn, so what am I.

I almost wanted to reply- I am your worst nightmare you shriveled up little bitch, oh yeah your boobs aren’t symmetrical, take that, cunt face.

Or I could have went with, I am a cool ass mofo, and asking a man, a grown ass, pubic hair owning man what he is, is not so cool.

Well guess what your protagonist decided to retort with. Well, I told her what I was. Race, age, food allergies, preferred sexual positions….everything.

I have a theory----wait for it-----I am trying to climb onto my soap box, which is a quite a task, since I loathe soap boxes, but alas, from time to time I take the hike.

80% of people are sheep, herded by the 10% of people that are exemplary, outstanding, intelligent, blah blah blah. I know what you are thinking, Sexy Einstein, your math sucks, that equals 90%, please say you can do simple arithmetic, please Sexy Einstein, well ok kiddies. That 10% you refer to is none other than the retarded sect of society. That section…. that section is far too ugghhh, far too trite and commonplace, too vomit inducing to be considered sheep. They yearn to be sheep, she was one of those 10%. But once again I lost my words, and my courage. Poor lady, poor me.