You are a walking commercial for birth control

I can't believe you would have dared to cross me, Hopelessly Dumb Bleach-Blonde LaCrosse Girl. I know I'm just your standardized test instructor; I'm only responsible for the your statistical representation to the institutions that will control your fate in this world. Oh yes, Blonde Lacross Girl ... By all means, give me lip, because Jesus knows I have neither the wit nor the resource to break you. I know these trivial details are of no consequence to a girl with matching miniature poodles who have been bleached white in a Clorox bath of hate.


But perhaps it will interest you to know that I am not tutoring your apathetic, half-wit ass for the joy of instruction, but rather because your mother is paying me well. She can afford to pay me well because she is fucking a lawyer and lives in a giant cookie cutter mansion that is designed to compensate for the misery she has endured since her unwanted pregnancy. And because your IQ is abyssmal, I will mention that that unwanted pregnancy was YOU.


No matter how much the poor woman drank or how much crack she snorted, you just kept on keepin' on. And now she pays me exhorbitant amounts of money to spoon-feed you mashed peas and algebra because you wouldn't know a coherent thought if it jacked off in your eye.