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Don't Fuck With Me, Duuude.
2003-04-22 - 1:48 a.m.


before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook

I sat in the computer lab at school on a friday, halls so empty that tumbleweeds rolled through and brushed up on the passersby, staring at me in my fishbowl seat, eyeing me with contempt and outright hostility.

I sat non-chalantly in my chair, slouched back, wearing a polyester blue leisure shirt reclining with code book and screens of code, mountains of code, not getting anywhere.

A blonde haired woman strutted by, veteran of awkward back seat gropings and parties where her brother's let their friends take turns on her, depriving her of her sense of control and a mean shrewd eye knowing where to get it.

I looked up to see her motor by on stiff legs that don't spread easy, mister.  Only for a mullet and a case of fine cheap wine.  I pulled my hand our of my pants, resting it there as guys are wont to do in times of leisure and ease.  She stalked by again and gave me the evil eye.

I went back to my code, thinking nothing of it.

Moments later a man with a name tag reading "Bruce" walked over, strutting big balls in his walk, one owl eye protruding from his sloped forehead like a cyclops, pulling his pants up and down as he walked in an obscene spectacle of age and girth.  A flunky he drafted from the tech department trailed in his wake, giggling nervously like a hyena, not well suited to the role of the heavy.

"Hey man,"  the cyclops began, "Are you a student here?"

I turned my head languidly to greet my tormentor.

"Yes."  I answered.

"Is this your home campus?" he said, shuffling with his drawers, off to the side, his tech geek flunky pinwheeled about and giggled with a high pitched cackle.

"Yes," I answered, starting to feel harassassed from my langour, disliking the proceedings, "why?"

"Oh, you're doing your homework?"  he asked again.

"Yes.  WHY."  I asked again, growing intemperant.

"Someone said they saw you here, and didn't look like you belon- didn't recognize you." he stammered and started to retreat, tech geek flunky flailing in his wake, giggling at a high pitched rate.

"WHY?"  I demanded, "WHO!"

He retreated with muscle in tow, melting into the beige hallways, not to be seen.  I damn well knew who.  The blonde.  I aroused her interest, and she attributed it thusly, because, as we know, there is no distinction between arousal states, but only thinking attributes it.

Yes, backed by science, fucked over again.

I tried to continue studying, to no avail. I closed my books and stalked out of the building, thoroughly unamused.


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