Why I'm marrying a sweatshop worker.

I was grabbing some paper towels from the top of a customer's cart at the market the other day when unfortunately, because this lady had the foresight of an amoeba, a glass bottle of blueberry juice displaced itself, falling through one of the holes of the child's seat and shattering on the floor. It wasn't my fault, because you're not supposed to leave glass bottles that I can't see near holes big enough to accomodate the legs of a 4 year old sumo wrestler.

Because of physics, some blueberry juice, responsible for many-a-stain, flew onto a young lady's purse behind my counter. The juice promptly became one with her purse, despite my attempts to get it off with some rubbing alcohol and elbow grease. The purse, having been constructed out Princess Diana's flesh by a skilled autistic artisan, ran her 3000 dollars, or so she said. And now, according to her, it was "fucking ruined".

And this is now where I say, I hate rich bitches. Ironically, I plan to marry one so I can continue drinking, popping pills and masturbating, necessarily in that order, for the rest of my life, but until that moment of adjustment comes, they can take their gold plated dildos and shove them in their eyes. It's not that all rich women are bitches and into superficial things, but most of them are, and that money could have really been used for better things.

This is now where I state my love for the movie Pretty Woman. Not only was Julia Roberts my [late night material] boyhood crush at the time, but I also connected with everything she stood for in that movie. She was like Jennifer Lopez in Maid in Manhatten. Pretty, down on her luck and looking for both a Gentleman and a Scholar to pull her from the depths of enslavement and perhaps slip her some alliteration in the form of a passionate penis. Maybe a nice sushi dinner or two, some saki, yeah, that sort of deal.

Women (I fucking think) just want to feel like someone loves them for who they are, as opposed to what they can provide (blowjobs). Then there are rich bitches, who don't know who they are, who define themselves by 3000 dollar purses, who will happily provide blowjobs as long as you slap them around a bit and occasionally say, "Who am I? That's right, I'm daddy."

Mentally unstable me and a down to earth girl who's perhaps a bit down on her luck, that's the paradigm of a co-dependant relationship, aka true love. Call it the Mother Theresa in me but I'll feed her, I get paid 8.50 an hour and yes, I still think money grows on trees. So bring it on.