I don't know what the write

And I think I complain too much, and I'd hate to be one of "THOSE people."
One of THOSE people who needs to be lined up and shot, and calls you every five minutes to tell you how some dick just cut them off in traffic. Who, at every slight, calls you to tell you what a dick their boyfriend is, or what a bitch their girlfriend is, or if they're a nice mixture of crazy, both. I don't want to be one of THOSE people who just finds things to bitch about to make conversation. Drama is a form of mental disease, I'm convinced.

Today a guy who works for a cell phone store offered to mow my lawn in a pink Speedo to make up for all the text messages I've been charged for for sending to my friend that she hasn't gotten. At two cents a piece, we figure that's about fifty cents I'm out.
Get your Speedo buddy and start pullin weeds.

In other recent news, I went back to school on Tuesday. How very exciting.