Don’t you just hate it when your bladder wakes you up and you were still trying to sleep?
“Wake up, fucker, I gotta empty my contents.”
You’re layin’ in bed going:
“Shit no, please, please just eight more hours, okay?”
The worst part is that your bladder is never nice about it. You never feel your bladder going:
“Hey, Telea, I have got a load of urinary waste in me. Could I, no, may I please, be allowed to dispense it into the nearest open urinary facility?”
Never happens. This is never a question or an option. YOU HAVE TO DO THAT SHIT! If you don’t, you’re in serious trouble. See, your bladder has got an ATTITUDE! Your bladder will FUCK YOU UP!
Because the problem is that your bladder never, ever submits. It doesn’t happen.
“Okay, since you’re tired, I’ll just wait. I’ll just hold back for a few more hours. I will take the pressure off of you.”
NO, YOUR BLADDER GETS MAD! It starts putting on the pressure, just pushing you to your limit. It’s like you’re a rogue spy for the Russian Intelligence Agency, and your bladder is the CIA agent who caught you and is now fucking your shit up for info.
“You like that, bitch? Can you feel the heat? Can’t take it? THEN TAKE ME TO YOUR FUCKING TOILET!”
You’re at the brink of tears here, and it’s not cool, because you know from experience that tears don’t come from the bladder. Crying spastically will not relieve the pressure you feel. Those are not urinary tears.
So, now you’re thinking you might just wet the bed, and this gets a barrage of comments from your surroundings, as follows.
Bed: “You’re gonna do what on me? Ain’t it bad enough that you talk in your sleep?”
Bladder: “Ooohhh, so this how you’re gonna play it. Well done.”
Body: “Ermm, excuse me…excuse me? That might chaffe.”
Nose: “You know I can’t sleep in these conditions. Piss smells shitty, sorry, asshole.”
Asshole: “Naw, bro, it’s okay, Left Buttcheek made that same joke just the other day.”
And finally, here’s the mind going:
“Ohh no you fucking din’t!”
Now here’s the thing. If your mind does not want you wetting the bed, you can’t. It’s an epic painful battle between your mind and your bladder, and your mind (that righteous fucker) ALWAYS FUCKING WINS.
At this point, you’re going crazy. You’ve been laying in bed for the last half an hour talking to inanimate objects, and your bladder starts flipping.
“Fuuuuuckk, what are you doing to me? Ohhh god, whyyyyy?”
You just got turned into the villain. You’re sitting there going:
“Who are you, my mother?!”
Now the guilt and pain is far too much, and you HAVE to get up.
“You may have won this time, bladder, but next time you pull this shit I’m gettinf fucking catheterized!”
“You fucker, now I’m gonna talk to mind, and mind ain’t gonna let you go to sleep.”
I hate my life.
Our topic is a little skewed today, but we shall make it by.
Firstly, I would like to say that dinosaurs still exist. You just can’t see them or hear them or smell them, and there is absolutely no evidence that they exist at all.
But they are there, and they are watching you. Us. The human race.
They do bad shit, too. They make you rob banks. Nooo wait…
Hold up, those aren’t dinosaurs, those are things called envy, greed, need, debt, lack of morals, and being crazy as fuck!
Also, we always need to discuss Transformers.
Decepticons are bad.
Ohh, you knew that?
CENTINNAL PRIME IS AN ARROGANT DICK WHO NOT ONLY HELPS THE DECEPTICONS BUT ALSO KILLS IRONHIDE.
You may not believe this, but I cry every time an Autobot dies or appears to have died.
It comes to a scene where Shia LaBeouf has to choose between Megan Fox and Bumblebee, and I’m standing up, screaming:
“FUCK THAT BITCH WITH A TOE-THUMB! YOU GUYS ARE GONNA BREAK UP! RUN AWAY BEFORE SHE BUSTS YOUR ASS! BUMMMMMBBBLLLEEEBEEEE!”
Everyone else in the movie theater is going:
“What is this bitch doing? Sit down! SIT DOWN! We are trying to watch a movie here!”
I’m on the phone, crying because in movie three you think all the Autobots are fucked, and I’m sobbing spastically to my bestie, who has yet to see the movie.
“Lekresha, they’re in fucking space, and they just got their shit fucked up by the decepticons, and ohhhhhh gaaawwwdddd, I gotta go… my phone is breaking because of my tears.”
Then everything turns out okay in the end except for the fact that IRONHIDE AND LIKE, FOUR OTHER AUTOBOTS ARE DEAD.
My mom has to drag me out of the theater.
“Telea, it’s not real, Autobots do not exist.”
She says this in the parking lot, and I go:
Shhh, mooooomm, you don’t say that! They could be any one of these cars out here.
Screaming at the top of my lungs twenty minutes later in the Walmart parking lot:
“I believe in you Autobots! I WILL BE THE SAM TO ANY ONE OF YOUR BUMBLEBEES! Just show me you exist.”
Cops come out.
“Excuse me, ma’am, is everything alright here??”
“No, no, I’m not okay, because Ironhide is DEAD, and your dirty nosy asses still exist right now, okay?”
“You feeling lucky, punk?”