honey, they're skinny 'cuz they're coked-up whores

Ah, the day after St. Patrick's Day. Most of the people on my floor are moping about, dragging their feet, holding their aching heads and looking like warmed-over crap. Not me though, and I'll tell you why: because, uh, and I don't want to voice an unpopular opinion here, but I could give a crap about St. Patrick's Day. Just like Valentine's Day. Chances are, if there's a Saint involved in the festivities and it's not St. Nick (who brings me presents and whatall), I don't really care. I'm not Irish; green beer scares me; I don't like crowded bars; I don't like frat boys; oh, and I don't need an excuse to go out and get plastered. I'm a big girl and I can do that whenever the fuck I want. In fact, I'm going to do that tonight. Snoogins.
In protest, instead of the requisite green, yesterday, I wore a butter-yellow blazer and an orange and pink flouncy skirt. Seven goddamn different people asked me why I wasn't wearing green. I had them killed, Lethal Weapon 2-style, rolled their bodies up in a tarp and threw them off the Winter River Bridge.