I just fought with Jess. PHYSICALLY FOUGHT.
No I didn't scratch her, bite her, pinch her, slap her, beat her, smashed her. But she did.
Yes it's a fight! But I just sat there allowing her to cause me so much bodily harm! =( As a big sister, there was no way I could retaliate. I only used my mouth to go on and on, in hoping she would feel remorseful or embarrassed.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
But she simply went on. =(
So now I'm like full of wounds. I'm hell not joking. A single tyrant can inflict much pain on you. Bleeding can! That's how bad it is. My mum was so busy with her dryer/washing machine that she didn't give a fuck and didn't bother saving her darling from her darling. Right, darlings after darlings. We are both her darlings. I couldn't have used other terms.
I try picturing myself in a scenario where I get raped(right, I'm so flat I doubt so)/gangbanged/confronted by whosoever/whatsoever/whensoever. And I guess the only way I can get away with it is by going on a verbal spat with the bastard/bitch/biatch or plainly negotiating terms and conditions.
Something like: to let him/her/it slap me ONLY ONE time and I give him a Muji Yuzi gummy in exchange. Or to share my Muji Japanese Plum mint with his pet cat if he does not force me to hand over my money. Also I would give him my precious antique telephone card if he wants my handphone, I'd probably try promoting the card to him to get me out of all the crap.
What's so bad about the telephone card!
You people take things for granted. Handphone big shit ah? I'd wait for the day when all the SIM cards suffer from some Y3K bug (right, are we still alive by then?) and all of you can only use phone cards because only the payphones are working.
Anyway phone cards are really useful alright. You can use them to save yourself from the dressing room when the door's lock is spoilt. It doubles up as a pin okay. (Only those who went through the agony, of being locked in the dressing room when your dance item is up next, will understand the feeling.) Also, you can use the phone card as an excuse for being late for school. Show your teacher the telephone card, and get her to work out the permutations of you mistaking your phone card for your Ez-link card. Thus, having to walk all the way to school because the bastard bussie refuse to let me hitch a ride.
Okay, back to topic please ...
It's an irony to be such a huge, muscular (or as some term it, FAT) freak, yet going all so weak when confronted by the bullies. Yes. 4 year olds included.
I can't believe I was at a total lost, thus using my only form of art to save my own skin.
.
.
.
.
.
Yesyes, that'd be definitely my ability to talk non stop and influence the masses with my warped theories.
Yuh, I couldn't save my skin (PUNINTENDED,IKNOWIKNOW!) in the end, it's full of scars now. =( If anyone were to ask where I get those scars from, I can't believe answering them in this manner,
No I didn't scratch her, bite her, pinch her, slap her, beat her, smashed her. But she did.
Yes it's a fight! But I just sat there allowing her to cause me so much bodily harm! =( As a big sister, there was no way I could retaliate. I only used my mouth to go on and on, in hoping she would feel remorseful or embarrassed.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
But she simply went on. =(
So now I'm like full of wounds. I'm hell not joking. A single tyrant can inflict much pain on you. Bleeding can! That's how bad it is. My mum was so busy with her dryer/washing machine that she didn't give a fuck and didn't bother saving her darling from her darling. Right, darlings after darlings. We are both her darlings. I couldn't have used other terms.
I try picturing myself in a scenario where I get raped(right, I'm so flat I doubt so)/gangbanged/confronted by whosoever/whatsoever/whensoever. And I guess the only way I can get away with it is by going on a verbal spat with the bastard/bitch/biatch or plainly negotiating terms and conditions.
Something like: to let him/her/it slap me ONLY ONE time and I give him a Muji Yuzi gummy in exchange. Or to share my Muji Japanese Plum mint with his pet cat if he does not force me to hand over my money. Also I would give him my precious antique telephone card if he wants my handphone, I'd probably try promoting the card to him to get me out of all the crap.
What's so bad about the telephone card!
You people take things for granted. Handphone big shit ah? I'd wait for the day when all the SIM cards suffer from some Y3K bug (right, are we still alive by then?) and all of you can only use phone cards because only the payphones are working.
Anyway phone cards are really useful alright. You can use them to save yourself from the dressing room when the door's lock is spoilt. It doubles up as a pin okay. (Only those who went through the agony, of being locked in the dressing room when your dance item is up next, will understand the feeling.) Also, you can use the phone card as an excuse for being late for school. Show your teacher the telephone card, and get her to work out the permutations of you mistaking your phone card for your Ez-link card. Thus, having to walk all the way to school because the bastard bussie refuse to let me hitch a ride.
Okay, back to topic please ...
It's an irony to be such a huge, muscular (or as some term it, FAT) freak, yet going all so weak when confronted by the bullies. Yes. 4 year olds included.
I can't believe I was at a total lost, thus using my only form of art to save my own skin.
.
.
.
.
.
Yesyes, that'd be definitely my ability to talk non stop and influence the masses with my warped theories.
Yuh, I couldn't save my skin (PUNINTENDED,IKNOWIKNOW!) in the end, it's full of scars now. =( If anyone were to ask where I get those scars from, I can't believe answering them in this manner,
"Erm, ah, erm, I got involved in a huge fight with a bloody tyrant. I
couldn't retaliate because she was a four year old A.k.a Jamie's bratty little
sister."
Can you imagine the embarrassment! Ahhh!
Man, anyway I promise to stop yakking. AND YES I WILL FINISH MY COLLEGE WRITING DRAFT 8 by tonight! I can't believe I wrote this 3000 words essay more than 7 times!
Love, Jams.
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