I want to be a skank when I grow up

Okay. I know. I did it again. I went on and on about myself and how I'm terribly miserable when I should be fully aware taht you don't really care. Nor should you. I read other blogs and can not imagine anything more boring than those that simply exist to vent one's own worries and concerns about their own self-being. The only person that should be concerned with this is the author themselves and while it may occasionally provide some sub-standard level of entertainment roughly equivalent to 'the Simple Life' it is something that I try to avoid. In order to better society and entertain you, the valued (try saying that five times fast and keeping a straight face) reader, I shall now point out what's wrong with society.

To provide you with the appropriate background: I'm in my store right now. Yes, while I know it may not be MY store, I like to think it is. I'm alone, like usual, but really do. appreciate the odd visit from a friend (hint hint), but right now, I'm alone. After becoming quite sick of the lunch hour oldies on the radio I've thrown in my Nora Jones cd. All in all, this is a pretty regular day. Nothing fancy, not too busy, but that's where I'm at right now. That out of the way, I'm going to go on to the bulk of the blog... that kinda sounds funny - bulk of blog bulk of blog, okay, so the greasy hamburger meat once you gett past the bun, unless you're on the West Beach Diet or Atkins, then this is more of the pink inside of the meat. Mmmm.

Two girls walked into the store earlier and determinately marched to the back of the store to check out, ahem, the stuff I like to avoid. Both were quite slim, in short skirts, heels and tank-tops, and both looked as if they had spent a few hours on makeup/hair/general girlie type things. Their brand name clothes probably cost more then my entire wardrobe, and the only time I could justify spending that much time getting ready would be if I landed a spot on the Bachelor. I'd capture his heart, have him give me all the roses and then shove the final one down his throat on live television and go on to rant how the show is everything wrong with society. It would probably land them their highest ratings ever and allow them to broadcast indefinitely, but I still would take some satisfaction from a well-worded monologue.

So the two of them go rooting around in the back, and I, of course, make it quite obvious that I'm attempting to use the powers of my mind to force their heeds to spontaneously collapse under the weight of the thick blond locks, but unfortunately to little avail.

Most times I have no quarrels with the visitors to the corner of unmentionables, but in the case, I'm guessing that neither had yet reached puberty. Yep. These well manicured, cell phone toting, gossiping girls were only about fourteen and looked like they could have easily been found roaming Jasper Ave. Wow. I wonder if they realize that looking like that doesn't actually attract boys that are the same age, as they still are under the belief that girls have cooties, but instead they manage to capture the wandering eye of men old enough to be their fathers. That's just great, what girl wouldn't want to be surveyed by old perverts?

I'd like to extend congratulations to the parents who were too busy looking after their own concerns instead of raising their children, and instead enlisted nannies TV and Bankcard to do it for them. I'm sure that all those hours listening to some of the music MTV describing 'licking the lollipop' or Britney Spear's Nudie-tard had nothing to do with their mal-adjustment and advanced 'maturation' that they've metamorphosed through.
This, of course, brings me to the subject of the media's role in everything, which I think I'll pull a 'Days of our Lives' with and leave you wanting more - to be concluded in my next episode... or is it? Yes... but is it really over? More after the commercial break.