Damn me. Damn you and this whole fricken place with everyone in it.
Damn all these rigged up chicks with their hollow sweet talk while they smile behind my back.
Damn those stupid guys who sheepishly think they got problems when they are too shy to ask some girl they dote for for a date.
Damn the korean owner of the school's kiosk with their pyramis of overpriced chocolate bars and old, almost petrified buns with parched cheese and sausages.
Damn the frigdid teachers who probably didn't get laid since the 70's when they were too shy to go out to have some fun in the disco and got lucky that some equally nerdy girl was around to let them have at least a little fun.
They all think they got problems with their daily stuff while they live off the backs of poor girls like me.
Ain't like I don't got any problems.
Last week I had to go out to the local grocery store in the middle of the night because my malodrous mother invited some of her alcoholic friends over at her house and they ran out of booze so she demanded me to go buy some more.
I always am terrified of wandering the streets at night so I try to delay and hide in my room somewhere.
But at some point my mother gets even more terrifying than the cold and dark night so there is nothing left to do but go and get those stupid drinks. At least I can steal some money, those uneducated fools are incapable of counting even to ten when they are intoxicated, which they are without doubt that late at night.
Damn my stupid dad who would leave me alone in this hell.
Thank god my mother didn't get the idea to sell me for some booze yet, but I already get weird looks from some of the men who come over every once in a while now that my boobs started growing. And I thought being undernourished would save me a lot of trouble, but no, genetics have to fuck me too now.
Damn that stupid Cosette (les miserables reference). Bitch got lucky, altruism's not gonna come and get me.
At least I know one thing that's gonna get me for sure…
*sigh*

Most people seem to be fortunate enough to know what they like or dislike. They don't need to think, or even meditate to go into themselves and find out what the fuck is going on.
Things just pop into their minds one day and they are like “hey hey, sexy girl, what's going on, eh?”
But no, I, of course, can't have that.
I have to see this priest twice a week. I must control myself under the shower so god won't hate me. Just one thoughtless moment and the next thing you know is you're getting horny over the image of some guy washing his hair in a rather astonishing way on the shampoo tube.
Last night I had a fancy dream. I don't think I'll tell that ultra-conservative priest about it. He will just say I must repent and try to bless me or some shit like that. Not like it helped in the past.
Anyway, in the dream I happened to be a pilot. Pilots always fascinated me. They are as free as one can get, even if just for a little while. I was a pilot of the British Royal Airforce in the 1940's or something, go figure. My company was based at North Africa, protecting the desert from some fox who screwed everything that got in his way. But that's not what the dream was about.
The dream was about the hot desert sun that let the white t-shirts of the mechanics who were forced to work all day and night to repair the airplanes the Krauts discourteously destruct so regularly. I am the navigator of a bomber. I'd like to get more precise about the model and whatnot, but unfortunately my education doesn't allow such details.
Me and my crew missed a bunch of mission because our sweet Bet, that's what we call our plane, got some trouble taking off. No idea why, but that afternoon, instead of sitting in the cool shadow of the club I went to the workshop to look after sweet Bet. And there I saw him in his white, in his soaked with sweat white t-shirt. Muscular men look amazing when their skin is wet.
I guess you can imagine what happened…
In the end we fired our guns. No direct hits. But I did some nice sticking on his fuselage and he on mine.
Goddamnit, why did it have to be me?