Pop a colla, balla

I've noticed a striking parallel between sewing machines and life. I spend roughly 4 hours a week bending over a sewing machine, because it's my random, old fashioned, 50's wife hobby. My current project is my grad dress, which happens to require a ridiculous amount of fabric, probably enough to clothe every single African child (wagering that each of them would need no more than one square inch, as I have been informed of their surprisingly small bodies). It's easy to lose yourself in it, and well, it really can be quite overwhelming trying to get out of... kind of like life's problems? Then, when you have everything organized, you can breath properly without 80 pounds of silk weighing down your chest cavity, and your mouth is thread-free, and there's no need for spitting or sputtering, the sewing machine decides to be a fuck-head. That's right, you've done nothing wrong, and it comes along and decides to get all in a knot over things, without taking in to account my time restraints, or my rage problems. This would be the pretentious douche bag (in life that is) who literally throws a wrench in your bike spokes, sending you projectile-style head first over your handle bars. Mmm hmm, or it could be: Your stupid, mindless ________ who screwed you over by ________ ing your __________.(You fill in the blanks)
You could choose words like:
brother, eat, sandwich; or
boss, pee-soak, jacket; or even
sewing machine, ruin, mother-fucking-dress.
(You're supposed to plug those words into the blanks in case you didn't catch on).

So anyways, one of my teachers made a joke today about how she doesn't actually teach us. The joke wasn't the part when she said she didn't teach, it was more the irony of the fact that she's a teacher, and actually doesn't teach. Funny, no?

P.S. I am participating in a 30 Hour famine, and if you don't hear from me in about three or four days, tell my family and friends that I always loved them and I always will.