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Pizza Pie And Sixteen Year Old Girl before/after I am doing my taxes online. It is brutally slow. I know the pangs of a poor connection, however, I laud the government for tepidly stepping into the twenty-first century. The pizza arrived, and I ate it. There was not a sixteen year old girl on the phone, however, they made one go to my house to give me my pie. America has its perks. She was not a pretty girl, meaning, I believe, she had not bloomed yet. Some people never bloom. She may have been one of them. She shuffled up to my door and gave me a fist full of coupons, cautiously lifiting her head to barely make eye contact with me. I was overtly nice. I wanted to try to buoy her self esteem. After all, I love her. We should all love sixteen year old girls everywhere. They are up against so much, what with magazine covers messing with their heads, creepy uncles, and date rapist friends. (that's why the suicide bomber thing bugs me so much...its a horrible phenomenon, and who so ever prompts these girls to end their lives so should be strung up. Yes, things are very bad for you and your people, but you are toying with oblivion and abomination when we try to use sixteen year old girls as weapons of war. ) She was so insecure, so unsure of her self. It was positively delicious. Not delicious in the 'I want to see you struggle' sense, but delicious in, 'I really hope you become a man-wrecker when you grow up' sense. And I was nice. Much like playing with a rotwieller puppy when young so it remembers you when it can tear legs off. Then again, she may never bloom. At least she wasn't about to blow herself up on my porch. That would have been a drag. I'm not cleaning that up.
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