Moods

Moods are asinine. They are asymptotic. They are asymptomatic. They are asymetric.

I hate moods. I hate them like Grouchy Smurf hates everything. I hate them like the Dude hates the Eagles.

I hate their irrationality and their suddenness. I hate their presumptuous insistence. I hate their dominance and solipsism.

Moods are unforgiving and unyielding. They are astonishingly blister-filled and puss-choked. I hate their whole families.

The littlest mood sputters its little mood spittle and dares me to slap it, dares me to seek redress for its unjust demands. It's little moody hand grips the telephone ready to dial mood protective services if I step out of line. I hate that this little inmate is running the asylum.

Papa and Mama mood scream in carnal congress and pound their emotional headboard against my skull. I hate them so much. Their fat, fart-filled fuck fest scares away the cute little sleep fairy who flirts with me and makes me feel like a suave guy. They're ugly and disgusting and oozing, and I hate every second of their undeniable moody existence.

All is want to do is to take the whole lot of them and cross-face chicken wing them into submission. I want to use baby mood like a steel chair on the mother, and use them both to construct some kind of origami-like arm bar on the father. I want to stand above them, a mask of delirious drool, and they scream for mercy from my rational, happy, self-assured self.

Moods are assholes.