Three Reasons I hate Kids

So, the landlord's daughter just got back today. Nobody told her I was staying here. Next thing I know, there's a house party going on, and some little shit named Josh has my guitar in hand and he's trying to impress the ladies with it.

It was all I could do not to charge across the room, rip his head off, and then shit down his impudent little throat. That guitar... That motherfucking guitar... is mine. Not a hand lays on it without my permission. Not a string moves, unless I wish it so. And I'll be struck right the fuck dead if somebody uses my fucking guitar to pick up chicks, while I'm not even in the same room.

On top of that, the little shits ate all my bread that I bought for food this week. Don't I feel good, knowing that I forked over some 50 bucks for food today, not knowing that some greasy little emo motherfucker was going to wad it down with No Fear energy drink. Once again, head ripping and throat shitting would've commenced if I'd only been there to catch the little bastard.

Next, comes the cleanup. I had my 'cube all nicely stashed. I went and checked to see if anybody had stashed any pizza in the drive, but luckily, it was only a post-it note, reading "Resident Evil rocks." Well, at least the little SOBs have good taste in games. But why the fuck did they have to put the post-it in the disk drive of my 'cube? On top of that. Why the fuck did they have to put post-it notes in my goddamn breakfast cereal?

Well, needless to say, the house is a disaster zone. Ironic, considering I'm supposed to have place spotless while I'm living here. If the little wench leaves a huge mess, I'm just going to burn it down.

Well, not really. But I'll be very angry.
Hell. I'm angry enough right now, I'm probably able to spit acid.

Oh, how I wish I could spit acid.