Why Is This Day Different From the Others?

Warning: the Refugee is a public health hazard that should be quarantined and then disregarded and left for dead. Instead, he works in a kitchen and prepares food. Well, my food no longer, unless he comes in a hazmat suit and gets a liver transplant. The dirty drunk can get you intoxicated via proximity. And, whatever to his calls for prayer, god forsaken him long ago and then sought fit to destroy his home. Can't say I disagree.

Also, phhhhht to the banana dish. I've heard talk of this before, but have never seen or tasted its fruition and doubt its existence. In addition to being contagious and pathological about spreading filth and disease, the Refugee is a proven liar. One thing he cannot lie about, however, is his income. No golddigging female would ever believe that the Refugee, with his clots of dirt and foul stench, could ever rise above the minimum wage and maintain stable shelter. Look at the ridiculous times at which he enters posts that (barely) resemble the English language, he probably hasn't seen daylight since I awoke him to make gumbo for people who, at least sometimes, drink non-alcoholic beverages and are not objects of shame for their parents. Now, away from super-depressing topics like the Refugee's existence and onto something better: me.

Yes, it's true. Today, I turn 27. What the implication is for this marking of growth, I do not know. But, the way to celebrate will be an act of solidarity with my savage and blue-collar acquaintance and fellow bloogie: permanently mark my body with a tattoo. Perhaps. I might get queazy once I see the Refugee and remember that I want to be nothing like him. Perfectly fitting though, that the one time in his life that the Refugee prays, it's for somebody to get drunk with him. Smote him, please.