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12:25 p.m. - 2001-11-27
Why won't she look into the future and see that I am not going to call her now?
Has anybody else noticed that all these "free five minute reading" psychic hotline deals like the one with the thick, easy to imitate Jamaican accented Miss Cleo, and all the clones that have popped up are…well less than helpful in their service?

I mean even if you suspend your doubts as to the validity of their sixth sense claims and assume, yes, just like on the commercials they can tell that my baby daddy is locked up, they still are a waste of money. Because even if they can tell you that you just got a new job, or that you caught your girl cheating, you already know all that shit. I don't want to pay $2.99 a minute (under three dollars! Call m'now!!!) to have someone tell me shit that already happened to me. I know, for fuck sake, I was there.

Well I sure don't need Miss Cleo to sucker me. Apparently I can get suckered without paying the $2.99 a minute. That's the beauty of being a chump, you get suckered for free.

See it all started last night when I was looking at internet stuff on the internet via internet explorer. Suddenly, my little icon told me that I had a new email from Help at Diaryland which delighted me because I knew it meant a new note.

So I goes over to the notes for Heckafresh page to see what kind wisdom somebody left for me only to find a note that fit only two parts of that description. There was wisdom left for me alright, but it weren't kind. It was mean.

Mean.

Mean assed wisdom left for me in my own notes. I clicked on the name "heeeybooocha" thinking to myself, "they think their wisdom is mean, whooboy they don't know the meaning of mean wisdom. My wisdom is the fucking meanest!"

But the name took me to the main diaryland page.

Suddenly I was upset. I had nowhere to lay down my own mean wisdom 'cept for in my own notes as a reply. Worse than that, this Heeeybooocha character left no clue as to who they were, or what I could be mean to them about. Man I was pissed.

So I wrote a semi mean response in my notes, alluding to the fact that I had more class than they did (if that's the case I'd hate to meet them) and fumed in unsatisfied anger.

Then I realized something. Getting forwarded to the D'land main page could have just meant that this punk ass bitch (note the class) had just yet to fill out their punk profile. Perhaps going directly to Heeeybooocha dot diaryland dot com would give me the punk perpetrator. So I did. And it did.

Peep.

Oh, he'll pay.

Yes, he will pay.

 

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