I'm sure that, like me, y'all have been reading a bunch about how lots of people hate this day of the year.

Well, not to toot my own horn or anything, but when I read stuff like that, it just seems that person's hatred seems pale as an Irishman that never leaves his house compared to my complete and utter disdain for the day that dare not speak its name.

Now, I know what you're saying.

"But Sarah. You are a short fat frigid little bitter troll that will remain forever alone. Aren't you, um, like, obligated to hate this day?"

Well sure. But, believe it or not, my revulsion began way back in the day(aka:elementary school).

Back then, I had lots of friends(What? Why are you laughing? I did!), I wasn't fat(well...not as fat), and hey, there were even romantic prospects looming for old Sarah(STOP. LAUGHING. It's true!). I mean, sure, it was the kid in the class that was partially mentally retarded(is that P.C.?) and hard of hearing. And sure he only liked me because I was the ONLY kid that didn't make fun of him on an hourly basis. Naturally, to retain my honor on the playground, I of course DID have to start making fun of him. *sigh* Kids. So cruel. I hate myself. I am, like, the worst person ever. But we're not talking about how I hate me. We're talking about how I hate this day.

So yeah. What I was trying to say before I got into that whole long convoluted thing was that my revulsion sprung from an elementary school induced trauma (that I have not revealed the details of to anyone) and not the fact that I'm a total loser that will never find love.

I'm sort of relieved that it falls on a weekend this year. This way, I don't have to deal with other people. When I have to deal with school, I have to deal with my friends, god bless 'em, taking pity on me and trying to cheer me up. Sorry guys, but when it comes to this day of the year, nothing can make me happy. Nothing. I can not laugh at your jokes. And maybe I'll crack a small smile at your attempts, but there's a 99.9% chance that it's totally fake. I always wear something black, and if I had black pants I'd go totally black. For twenty four hours, my heart just shrivels up and I am just not capable of being happy. One year, it literally made me sick!

I've barely left my room today(only to go to the bathroom and get a drink of water). All I've done is sleep and watch The Exorcist, because it was the only movie I could think of where there is no mention of love whatsoever. I mean, outside the love between a girl and her crucifix. (I joke, but seriously, that has to be the single most shocking thing I've ever seen on film. I mean, I can handle a lot, but when that scene comes on, I totally do the girly girl thing of covering my eyes and looking away, going "can't we watch Bambi or something?!" The blood stained nightgown, Regan's cries for help, and Mercedes McCambridge's wonderfully horrifying voice shouting "LET JESUS FUCK YOU! LET HIM FUCK YOU!" all combine to make an experience way too much for my virgin eyes)("Incidentally-and I mention this only in passing-"(one of my favorite lines in the movie-Father Karras says it when he's first approached by Lieutenant Kinderman and it's really quite amusing to see a priest being a smartass), that scene was what led to "the talk" between my mother and I.)

I don't want you guys to leave me messages trying to cheer me up. As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I don't need it. Really. I don't even know why I wrote this entry. Guess I just needed to get this off my chest. I'm sick of people talking about it. Whatever. Go watch The Exorcist. It's one of the best movies ever made.

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